


One Last Time

by RedMela



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist!Steve, BAMF!Bucky, Battle of the Bulge, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Bucky Barnes is Ronald Speirs, CA:TFA, CA:TWS, Depression, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Steve Rogers, Heavy Angst, Historical Accuracy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Redemption, Rule 63, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Hatred, Slavic Mythology references, Stella Rogers - Freeform, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Violence, War Era, World War II, girl!steve - Freeform, initially established relationship, references to Band of Brothers, writer!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedMela/pseuds/RedMela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I feel like the moment I’ll see you again, my heart will jump out of its cage screaming: “Love, it’s you! I’ve found you!” and you’ll put a bullet right through it. I won’t mind. If anyone deserves to do it – it’s you. You’d be doing a service. Nothing more than putting down an old, cold, dog that should have been dead long ago."</p><p>...</p><p>Waking up in the twenty-first century wasn’t the worst part about surviving the war. Learning that history was rewritten, half his family and friends are dead, and being forced to finally live a “normal” life without Stella was. He’s not “Captain America” and he never will be -- that was her… but no one cared to remember who Stella Barnes was. He’s angry, and has to cope with this growing darkness and hatred within in. He has to come to terms with the fact that Stella’s name has been ignored and destroyed by history. And finally, he has to face a ghost… the same ghost he thought only existed in his head… A Pale Lady that’s been haunting him since she fell off a train in Switzerland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the Stucky Librarians for giving me an extension for the SBB since Reality™ killed me this summer. Special thanks to my beta Salome (who can be found on AO3 under salome_veils and my artist iceburd (hit them up on tumblr!) for still being hard at work, patient, and wonderful as hell. I also wanna thank one of my closest friends "Furzy" for his epic political-military-historical knowledge and dealing with my whining and perfectionism about this fic. I couldn't have done this without them!
> 
> Special Notes:  
> "Nuts" -- WWII slang that is essentially the equivalent to "fuck you"  
> "Kiki" -- 1940s derogatory slang for lesbians

_I feel like the moment I’ll see you again, my heart will jump out of its cage screaming: “Love, it’s you! I’ve found you!” and you’ll put a bullet right through it. I won’t mind. If anyone deserves to do it – it’s you. You’d be doing a service. Nothing more than putting down an old, cold, dog that should have been dead long ago._

 

I.

 

…

 

 

 

 

> _Stella,_
> 
> _I’m sorry I haven’t been writing to you as often as I should. In Basic it was easy – all we did was train. I had a lot of time on my hands, I was allowed to write more, and the only thing I had to worry about was surviving a few months without you. Now I have to worry if I’m even going to survive the night. Becca told me you got sick again in her last letter… promise me you’re in bed getting better instead of going around and trying to join up with the Nurse Corps ~~again~~ alright? _
> 
> _I don’t want to argue with you in a letter you damn punk, but Stella, you have to believe me, you don’t want to be here… War isn’t like it is in the newspapers. It’s hell… Stella its hell. At least in Brooklyn I know you’re safe and that’s the only thing keeping me going right now… knowing that you’re at home and safe. ~~Well, at least as safe as a punk like you can get.~~ _
> 
> _Tell me about home. You still visiting my Ma every Sunday? Becca said you aren’t showing up as often as you used to… is that new job at the store keeping you busy? ~~If you over worked yourself into a cold Stella, I swear to God –~~_
> 
> _~~Don’t matter what I’ll do… I just…~~ Stay there for me, alright? If it starts getting real bad stay a few days with my folks. I don’t care about your angry pouting Sweetheart – besides I already told Becca to drag you kicking and screaming if she has to. _
> 
> _I just realized it’s been over a year that I’ve been stuck in this damn war and I miss you. I miss you so much. I keep trying to think of home… of the noises and the view outside our window but I haven’t been sleeping too good lately. Draw it for me?_
> 
> _I miss you. I love you._
> 
> _Always Yours,_
> 
> _Bucky  
>  _

 

 

  
…

 

 

In a surreal kind of murky dampness, he realizes that Peggy is staring down at him. Pristine is her form, still perfect and sharp despite the chaos of the situation around them. She’s good at attempting to keep herself composed, he realizes, despite the fizzing buzz of his drunken state. He tries to keep his swirling vision focused on her dark, glistening eyes. She’s barely keeping it together. Dum Dum must have sent her… or Gabe since he’d told em’ to fuck off; thrashing, and cursing, and sloshing all over the small bar like the damned liquor he kept downing.

There’s a jingle in the tune that fills the small room; his melancholy sinking in with the lyrics he vaguely remembers.

“ _We’ll meeeet again, don’ know wheeere, don’ know wheeen_.”

He rather feel the burn of bourbon over the burn of the pain he feels… So he takes another gulp of the smoldering liquid. He stares at the fragile glass in his hands, shaking the liquid to see how it moves. He’s drunk enough to knock all the Howlies out for a week and yet he _still_ doesn’t feel drunk enough. It’s more of an irritated buzz and he doesn’t want his vision to swim. He wants to _drown_ in it and he doesn’t understand why it’s taking longer than necessary to make his aching bones liquefy and disintegrate.

“ _Till the blue s-s-skies drive the dark clouds far awaaaaay_.”

“Sergeant,” she cuts him off, although at this point he really doesn’t give a flying _fuck_.

“A-Ashgent,” he slurs, her body wobbling like a bad dancer. “If you could kindly f-fuck _off_ an’ leave a man to hisss fuckin’ _misery_ that’d be real swell a’ ya’.”

“ _James,”_ she asserts, swallowing loudly before trying again, much more softly. “James, we… we _know_ that this is a hard time for you – ”

“ – hard time?” he cuts her off with a sharp hiss, incredulously staring at her as his swirling emotions finally zeroing into anger. “Y-you callin’ my wife f’ckin’ fallin’ to ‘er death a _hard time!?_ ”

That shuts her up and he feels like he’s being chocked all over again. Suffocating – because he can’t _breathe_ knowing that she’s not there… That she’ll _never_ be there again.

“ _Stellaaa –_ ” he moans before sobs slam through his body in a fresh wave of despair. It breaks him down all over again.

“James the war isn’t over… We need you.”

She stands before him, pity reeking over the stench of spilled alcohol and his own unwashed, unkempt body.

“She loved you,” Peggy continues with resolve despite her own glistening eyes and shaking tone. He wonders if Peggy Carter even _grieved_ over Stella for more than a second. He wonders if she thinks their grief is matched because they were close friends – because Stella loved her like the sister she never had. She’ll never understand what it’s like to lose someone who was the center of your entire _world_. For now, he doesn’t want to hear it. She had always loved him too much… so much that Stella had been willing to _throw herself after him the moment the pipe began to squeal; signaling its impending breakage and he was suddenly pushed up while she –_

“She loved you so much that she must have thought you were damn well worth it. Allow Stella the dignity of her choice, James.”

“I don’t want this… _I don’t want this, Peggy!”_

“It’s what she would have wanted… and she wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

“It was always s-supposed to be me… never her… God, _why did it have to be her!”_

The glass is cracking at his fingertips and he can feel his blood mingling with the electrifying sensation of alcohol. It hurts so, so, _so bad._ Worse than being poked, prodded, and violated with needles, beaten until he couldn’t think straight, zapped like a buzzing fly until he lost coherency with Zola’s twisted laughter howling like a crazed wolf in the back of his mind.

Peggy stands for a minute longer… a minute where he continues to drink, despite the blood coating his glass and the alcohol that spills through the cracks. A minute of watching him with an expression he doesn’t understand – _doesn’t give a fuck to understand –_ before he hears the soft snap of her heels clicking away. 

 “ _We’ll meeeet again, don’ know wheeere, don’ know wheeen_.”

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

 

> _Stella,_
> 
> _You damn punk, I hope you know I’m mad at you! My military pay is supposed to help you pay the damn rent, the doctor, and your pills, your asthma cigarettes, AND in case of a fucking emergency! How much did you spend on this care package?!? I HOPE you know the minute I see your pretty scrawny ass – I’m going to kick it before I kiss it. _
> 
> _You didn’t have too Sweetheart, or you could’ve just sent one with my Ma instead of a whole separate one… I appreciate it, seriously… And I know, I know, you “wanted to” and thanks Doll, but next time I rather get a bundle full of your drawings that smell like your perfume instead of a care package that’s giving’ me a heart attack. How much did all those Luckies cost you?! And the thick woolen socks?!! ~~Never mind, I don’t want to know.~~ Do you know how hard it’ll be to fight off the guys? We’ve all been running low on cigarettes lately. ~~~~_
> 
> _Don’t mind me, I’ve been on the edge lately. Those Kraut bastards are pushing us hard in **\--REDACTED--** … there’s also rumors going on about some kind of crazy weapons they got… Not sure how much of it is true and how much is just a bunch of baloney. But we’ve been marching’ to **\--REDACTED--** for a few days now, and let me tell you something Sweetheart, I thought we’d get some nice warm weather and some sun but instead it’s been raining the whole damn time._
> 
> _I don’t know when my next letter will be… I got… I got a real bad feeling about **\--REDACTED--** but keep sending me yours. Keep sending me pictures of my folks, of my sisters and my little kid brother (he’s so big now!), and of Brooklyn. Maybe next time draw a few more of our apartment and  you. I have a picture of you with me Stella, but it’s getting’ crinkled and wrecked in this shit weather. Tell me how much you miss me. Tell me you love me. Promise me you’ll be there when I come home. _
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Always Yours,_
> 
> _Bucky_

 

…

 

 

Everything has changed. 

Little Stella Grace Rogers, the lovely _Lady Liberty_ who danced and pranced during the USO tours was dead. Sleeping in a frozen grave and ravaged by a vicious ravine. The girl who wanted to do nothing more than to fight bullies was _dead._

But _Captain America…_ America’s very own living legend just couldn’t _die._

“Sergeant Barnes, by all means you shouldn’t be here at all. You’re a POW that’s gone through psychological torture and if it weren’t for the Missus screaming bloody murder, I would have sent you home a _long time ago_. But… you’re a damn good sniper, son. One of the _best_ and a hell’ova good leader. Despite your little attitude problem and your inability to keep your wife at bay, you’ve still proven that you don’t only excel on solo coverts, but also within a group. Ever since you gave yourself up in Azzano so the others wouldn’t be harmed, your boys from the 107 th have done nothing else but sing high praise of you and your work with the Howling Commandos is nothing short of impressive.”

He licks his cracked lips, head pounding in a steady rhythm with every breath he took. He stared hard, glaring at Colonel Phillips as he itched at what to say.

“With all due respect, Sir,” he eventually croaks out in a hoarse voice, “I don’t really have anything to fucking go back to, now do I?”

Phillips’ eyebrows shoot up at his blatant vulgarity before he shakes his head in a sad, almost weary manner.

“As much as I’d love to send you home, Sergeant, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

It was his turn for his eyebrows to rise.

“You see, Stella may have been your little nurse wife, but out _here_ she was Steven Grant Rogers – Captain America. Do you know what our enemies… _what HYDRA_ would do if they found out our miracle super soldier was dead? Or that he was a _woman?_ ”

He’s silent, anger slowly beginning its rumble at Colonel Phillips blatant disregard, dreading his next words before they escape from old, split lips.

“They want you to take the shield, Sergeant.”

The air escapes his lungs like he’s been punched in the gut. His insides twist inside out; the air shifting and he feels caught in sharp wind all over again. _Picking up the shield, before being shot and blasted off the edge – Stella throwing herself over the edge; helmet gone with her military cropped hair blowing wildly._

_Bucky!_

Why had she done that…. _Why had she done that?_

“Sergeant Barnes, We need you to keep the legend of Captain America alive.”

_She should have let him fall, instead of dropping herself in a frenzy; using the remainder of her strength to push him from the breaking pipe onto the ledge of the train._

He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

“No,” he whispers, breath erratic as he watches Stella fall. Not yelling, not screaming, _just nothing._

“…I beg your pardon, Sergeant?”

“ _Nuts!_ ” he spits with wild eyes and venom that he wishes he could burn Phillips with. “I said _no_. How dare you think that I would ever -- _ever –_ wanna _lie about my wife_ and pick that fucking shield up –”

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!”  

He whips around, teeth bared and ready to savagely rip apart whoever was _stupid enough_ to think he’d want to become “Captain Fucking America”. Of course, it’s Peggy – followed by Stark and the rest of the Howling Commandos. They’re all fidgeting: breathing heavily in a drumming rhythm as if this were an intervention. It’s much worse than that.

This is a kind of betrayal that shakes him to his bones.

Peggy takes a step forward, gentle eyes strong and fierce as she lifts her chin to look at him.

“You know better than to disrespect the Colonel, Sergeant, no matter how heart-wrenching your grief is.”

She continues to take a few steps towards him and he clenches his fist in frustration, wanting to feel the bleeding cuts from a few nights before. He needs a distraction, before he really does become feral and attack Peggy. His senses are saturated and everyone’s loud breathing was sending him into a frenzy of emotion. Stella used to breathe that loud, with her shit lungs, and when she’d get angry her nostrils would flare loudly like a dragon exhaling molten steam.

 _Your Ma raised you better, James Buchanan!_ She’d boom in a voice too loud and deep for such a petite woman. _Dames callin’ you a “gentleman” must be blind and dumb – you’re just a sly Abercrombie, motherfucker!_ She had the dirtiest mouth in Brooklyn with the sweetest heart… never afraid to call him out, remind him manners, and put him in line when he was in the wrong. If she’d hear him now… wanting to beat the living shit out of her “friend” Peggy, she’d probably smack his ass to the moon… if only she was _here_ …

“We are all mourning, James, and this,” she gestures to his dirty body, greasy stubble, and angry, red eyes, “she would not have wanted this James. Neither for you nor for anyone else to feel your burning wrath.”

His nails are biting through his skin at this point, blood just as sizzling as his emotions and he knows his eyes are welling up with tears.

“Oh Yeah? Well she was two parts stupid and eight parts punk who nev’a knew when to run away from a fight.” Bubbling liquid spills into his fingers; spills over the barrier of his eyes; spills out in pangs of flying spit as he growls out, “Why the fuck did you give her that serum?! Why the _fuck_ did you do that to her?!”

Peggy visibly swallows and he can _hear_ the saliva moving down her throat. “We need more people like her.”

“What?” he laughs, taking an angry step forward, “Idiots? An idiot that knew _nothin’_ about combat? About the front lines? What kind’a idiot wears a colorful suit in war and doesn’t know how to shoot a goddamn _gun_. She barley fuckin’ made in through the “Basic” you forced her through since if a bunch a’guys saw a _woman_ there with ‘em, they’d lose their goddamn minds!”

They’re all frozen, Peggy’s eyes still trained, stupid stubborn just like _fucking Stella’s_ and suddenly a different kind of rage begins to rip out of his throat.

“If you’re so fuckin’ fond of her, _Agent Carter_ , why don’t you reveal that _Captain Fucking America_ was a woman?”

Peggy’s face falls; plump red lips tightening into a thin, controlled line. He’s right and she knows it. He’d made Stella spill the beans the moment they’d had a moment alone and she was never one to lie. She’d described in quivering detail how she’d been in the training in the Nurse Corps during the day and gone through Basic at nights. She’d barely made through it with her frail body before her tenacious resilience made her the most favorable candidate over the other men that they’d considered for the serum. But because she was a _woman_ their miracle soldier couldn’t go into war, so they’d made her a show monkey under the guise of _Lady Liberty_ ; a pinup swinging her legs to increase war bonds.

It was once she found out he was _captured_ that she’d bullied Stark into giving her the prototype, male super soldier suit. Even after she’d liberated their entire camp and brought it burning to the ground, they still refused to have a woman lead their men into war. So whenever around other soldiers, she was Nurse Barnes; Sergeant’s James’ little wife Stella who’d finally made her way across the Atlantic. To everyone else, she was Captain America. They’d cropped her hair, gave her the name “Steven Grant Rogers” and if she shut up and kept the helmet on, she really did pass as a male. 

“You want me to dance around like some fuckin’ monkey on a unicycle? Just like you made _her_ as Uncle Sam’s “Lovely Lady Liberty”?”

He’s glaring at his _friends_ now… guilt eating up their eyes and he hopes it devours them whole. He wants them all to burn with this hatred bubbling in him and their audacity to even fucking think it was right to _approach_ him to take up the shield. His eyes meet Dugan’s, that immediately down cast, unable to look him straight in the eye. Gabe reacts similarly and Falsworth pretends to inspect something on Dernier’s shoulder. Shockingly, it’s Morita who takes a step forward.

“Sarge, you know we got the utmost respect for you and Stella… but Peggy’s right in saying this is what Stella would’ve wanted. The wars still not over and a lot of people are going to keep dying unless we do something about it.”

Falsworth is the next to look up with courage. “Bloke’s right, Barnes. And none of us would dare take the shield – not when that honor belongs to you.”

“And some new intel’s come up that’ll interest you, man,” Gabe whispered, eyes downcast before he inhaled sharply and began to speak again. “We’ve been digging around the Netherlands ever since the Airborne weren’t able to liberate Holland during Operation Market Garden. Troops reported hidden _Tiger_ looking tanks that destroy more than the regular kind do, and a shipment of guns that didn’t look like regular weapons. We’ve suspected that a minor HYDRA base could be there, however, recent leaks suggest the Red Skull is seeking refuge there after our capturing of Zola in Switzerland.”

“Believe it or not, Sergeant Barnes,” Colonel Phillips quickly cut in, drawing his heightened emotions immediately, “HYDRA and the Captain America question aren’t our only obligation. If the Airborne wasn’t able to liberate Holland then there’s something hiding there. Besides, this is a perfect opportunity to prove that Captain America is alive and well.”

He’s got a taste for blood on his tongue, the opportunity of revenge too sweet of a chance to give up so willingly. The mission or the reason isn’t really important to him, no matter what Stella’s self-righteous ass believed in. _If he’d be able to get his hands on the Red Skull –_

“I’ll do it,” he hisses, dried tracks of salt slowly pooling with liquid again. “Give me the details tomorrow,” and he spins on his heel, pushing past a shockingly, stunned silent Stark and Peggy before the Howlies parted like the Red Sea and let him through.

“Oh and Sergeant!” he stops, looking back over his shoulder with a numb stare. “Despite your atrocious behavior, I have no choice but to promote you to the rank of Captain.”

“Permission to speak, Sir?” he grunts, refusing to show to show a shred of respect, and to Phillips’ own quirk of an eyebrow and a simple nod he continues, “I’d rather just stay a Sergeant.”

He storms out. Eyes hot and heavy, with smoldering wet liquid freely swimming down his stinging cheeks. His breathing is disturbed and he forces himself to look at his hands. There’s fresh cuts from his blunt nails and a mess of copper red smudged across his rough fingers. He still bleeds. He’s still somehow _alive_ despite how he feels himself dying on the inside.

But the cuts from a few nights before… when he’d broken the glass in his hands and let his blood mingle with alcohol…

Nothing more than pink stripes of _healed_ skin.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

> _Stella,_
> 
> _I know you were excited when I finally got drafted Doll, but let me tell you something – Basic training is NOT ONLY boring as shit, but also a pain in my ass. We have a Drill Sergeant breathing and screaming down our necks the whole time, doing the same things over and over again, and all we do is train and kind of eat with not too much sleep. I know they want to prepare us right for war and all, but it’s real nasty when one guy fucks something up and then they’ll take our weekend passes away just to fuck with us since “war isn’t fair” so they won’t be either._
> 
> _I can’t EVER imagine why you keep dreaming of a time when dames can fight the same way that guys can._
> 
> _I thought I was in pretty good shape, right? With me being a boxing champ at the YMCA and all the heavy lifting I do at the docks, but turns out I’m not even close to being in whatever shape a “real soldier’s” supposed to be in. Can’t even begin to imagine what the higher ranking groups like the Marines and the Airborne are going through – hey did I tell you? We could have been really swimming in the big bucks Sweetheart. Before they split us up in groups they told us we’d be paid an extra 50 more bucks to be Airborne and jump out of a plane while being shot at. 50 MORE!!! I should have said yes… Mary, Joseph, and all them other Saints know we need the money but what can I say Stella?_
> 
> _I know, I know, I’ll be off fighting the good fight for all the good, righteous, and moral reasons since Hitler and the Germans are being real jackasses – and fuck the Japanese. If I have to go to war, then I’ll go. But I don’t want to die… all I want to do is kick some Nazi ass Brooklyn style and come back to you as soon as I can. No way in hell am I jumping out of a plane while getting fucking shot at._
> 
> _But I got some good news to match yours! You deserve all kinds of medals and praise for getting through this winter without getting anything worse than a cold!! Well anyways, I’ve been made into a Sergeant and they pulled me aside when we were learning to shoot all kinds of guns. Sorry -- I can’t say much Sweetheart, but let’s just say I’m better at it than most guys and it turns out most of them can’t even do some basic math. Who would have thought that you, ragging on my ass to finish off homework when we were still in school, would have been a good thing, huh?_
> 
> _Love you tons and see you soon!_
> 
> _Always Yours,_
> 
> _SERGEANT Bucky_
> 
> _Ps. I’m still getting letters from Ma, Pa, and Becca you punk! So don’t you dare think that I don’t still have my eye on you Stella Grace Barnes! You try joining’ the Nurse Corps again and I’ll know and I am not going to be happy about it.  _

 

 

…

 

 

Ever since Stella’s been gone, all her personal belongings have become his. He mostly knew what they were, since they practically lived in each other’s pockets, but if there was one thing that punk ass “Stevie” was real stickler about was the privacy of her sketchbook. It was small, pocket sized, and she had kept it on her almost constantly. In fact… he’s shocked that it was stuffed inbetween his things as if she _knew –_

The first drawing in the book is a monkey riding a unicycle: the first and one of the last sketches she’d shown to him since their reuniting.

 _I ain’t got time to be drawing, Buck – get your fat face outta my book, ya’ red-nosed piece of shit!_ She’d hiss out, both of them always shortly bursting out into laughs at the Howlies shocked faces during their frequent spats. That, and just how god honest _Brooklyn_ they sounded – more so with Stella. They told her to ditch the accent when she’d become a show girl since “Lady Liberty” couldn’t talk like that. She’d done a good job too but when she was real tired or pissed at him, she’d let it rip. 

_Fellas, you can take the girl outta Brooklyn but you can’t take the Brooklyn outta the girl, a’right? Jeez, Louise, ya’ really thought Bucky could out swear me?_

Her drawings at first are nothing more than scenes from Brooklyn… mundane simplicities from their small apartment with occasional cameos from his folks and siblings, close friends, and neighbors. There’s an entire page dedicated to her fellow show girls and another to the street cats that had prowled on their fire escape and in between dirty alley ways. Slowly… they morph into him. Some of these are memories: his first official boxing match with his fist raised in a killing blow that had knocked his opponent out, washing dishes, and coming back from the docks with his pals Tony Romano and Joey O’Sullivan. They’d all been drafted together before being split up in Basic. He hasn’t seen a familiar Brooklyn face since Stella… before that since the Stark Expo and on the boat when they’d all shipped out to this god damned hell hole. Then it’s his face… nothing more than a collection of expressions from pouts, to snarls, to glares that make him snort until he gets towards the last few pages.

The charcoal is smudged and the penciling gets darker… much darker. He’s on the table – his face mucky but the whites of his eyes still bright on the page in a shock that shakes; makes him twitch and shiver in memory. There’s one or two of the Commandoes, a few small drawings of Peggy, and more of these… _changed_ photos of him. Sleeping in a tree with his sniper rifle, drunk and numb, dark circles slowly growing around his eyes, and more of a firm, military grimace then the light, carefree smile she used to sketch out of him. She noticed how much this war was killing him before he’d even accepted that he should think about it.

On the last two pages there’s a mess of words with crossed out writing, rough erasing, and furious scribbling. There’s a small note written amongst the chaos in her neat, artistic handwriting.

_Bucky, I know you’ll go through this you snoop. We’re supposed to write these small letters and keep them with us for when we pass. I don’t plan on leaving you any time soon and you sure as hell won’t give up on me. I’m not good with words – that’s YOU but you’ve been wanting a drawing of me for a while, right? A “self-portrait”. Well I’m nothing without you. So what you’re getting is a photo of both of us on the best damn day of my life. No matter what happens, how we come out of this war… remember us like this. All my love – “Stevie”_

He flips the page and his heart stops.

Although small… it’s a detailed photo from their wedding.

He’s got a smart suit on and that cocky smirk finally ripped off his youthful face for a full blown smile: hair slicked back and pearly whites shinning off the page. She’s just as pristine if not more. Hair tightly curled with a veiled bonnet resting on the top of her small head. She just reaches his shoulders, wearing her mother’s old wedding dress – long on her small, fragile form with the delicate lacing so precisely drawn that when he touches the paper, he almost expects to feel the worn texture underneath his fingertips. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers that had been collected and painstakingly wrapped by her artist friend, Rosie O’Donald, who lived a block over. Rosie always visited in the afternoons for coffee and she’d actually helped Stella land her second job drawing comics for the local newspaper. They both looked so stupid, loving, _and joyful_ that it takes a sledge hammer to the shambles of his broken heart.

He stares at the photo for what feels like hours, forcing himself to burn the image into his scrambled mind. He watches his tears fall on the page. When a fat one falls on Stella’s face and smudges down her entire dress, he’s too late to save the drawing. It’s ruined. He can’t make out the detail he just destroyed – just like he’s destroyed her by letting her fall into the cold, killing river. 

The nightmares get worse that night.  

He’s been dreaming nothing but her… about the train and what he could – _no_ – _should_ have done to save her life. This time he fails her again. She’s falling, swaying through the air like a rag doll just like she would’ve before the serum. She’s not in that stupid, colorful clown suit anymore. She’s in her wedding dress. She’s screaming in a shriek that shatters his ears.

There is no river.

This time he sees her hit the ground – blood mixing with her hailed veil pillowed around her head.

She doesn’t stop screaming.

He doesn’t either, when he wakes up.

 

 

…

 

 

Nothing will ever be the same.

 

The rest of the “Howling Commandos”, his friends, are scared of him. They’ve all come to slowly realize that there is a shift in his character; something darker curling out from the bowels of his belly that he’s kept hidden since Austria. Dernier notices it first when they make their way towards Holland. He makes the others leave him alone when he broods in the darkness, or insists on scooping the perimeter alone. He doesn’t sleep much and he doesn’t talk much anymore. There are no more jovial songs, no easy nights around the fire, and no happy talk. There is only war.

And he’s never hated himself so much in his entire life.

He’s experienced in the front lines, fought there for a year until his capture in Italy, but he’s always been a sniper. He knows how to fight with a wide variety of weaponry and as an infantryman, he’s seen a lot of good men die. Young men. Stupid patriotic men who didn’t know half of the situation, only that the Krauts were “bad” and Europe needed some saving. After elite units like the Airborne, they were the grunt guys coming in the clean up the mess, the distraction, and the ones who received the bulk of the Nazi and HYDRA forces muscle.

But he was still the designated marksman of their platoon.

He’s the one who stayed back with the pressure of having to fire as many accurate shots as possible from a semi-automatic or face the consequence of watching a lot of his friends and fellow soldiers die because of his carelessness. When possible, he didn’t stay back. He’d run up front; join the teeth to teeth, breathe to breathe, and fire to fire fight just like all the others. He was _good_ and they knew it.

It’s why he became a sniper within the Howling Commandos.

He’d rather slit his balls off and present them on a silver platter to Adolf Hitler himself then see a HYDRA commander even get close to his wife or let another sniper get the drop on her when she’d storm in recklessly. He never missed; perfect shots square between the eyes or straight through the mandala. Phillips had upgraded him to a real sniper rifle and his accurate kill count only grew. He’d been pulled for a few solo missions that involved taking on high-level targets and he’d often do them alone. His roots were in infantry and if someone got close enough to touch, they’d never touch again.

But he’s still more accustomed to the shadows; lingering back with a level head and a critical eye to assess the situation and pick out targets by level of importance before bleeding his way down to the grunts.

He can’t _do_ that anymore with the damn shield and his “uniform” being nothing more than a big “shoot me!” sign plastered onto his body. He can’t imitate Stella’s aggressive, close combat fighting style when he doesn’t even have enough strength to throw the damn shield hard enough.

He ignores Dernier’s frantic, French shouting as he ditches the shield, pulls out the pistol from his pocket and starts firing out shots in every single HYDRA monkey’s head before Dernier can even reload his submachine gun. He doesn’t think about the dropped shield that he’s left behind, the “out of character” approach he’s dropped from Stella’s thoughtless running and fist fighting to this methodological killing he’s more comfortable with. He kills like a machine; every ounce of blood spilt compensating for his heartache.

He can’t be her… _he isn’t her_ and he sure as hell isn’t Captain America.

Stella is dead… _Stella is dead_ and so is Captain America.

Sergeant Barnes, on the other hand, is a determined man seeking revenge.

Soldiers fall like flies, and when he breaks down the door with Falsworth and Dernier on his heels, his fist doesn’t meet the HYDRA goon’s face – but his knife does. He can pick out the leader of this small base within an instant and he sprints towards the man, trusting the others to keep any reinforcements at bay while he charges. The man doesn’t stand a chance when he aims the pistol again and takes out both kneecaps in two swift shots.

The lieutenant, from the appearance of his stripes, is crying in a screech and withering in on the floor; blood pooling quickly around his worm like body that just _refuses_ to stay down. The German makes an attempt to pull out a pocketed _Luger_ but he’s faster. He stomps on the man’s hand; reveling in the crush of bones before he grabs and forcefully slams him onto his back, shoving his fingers deep within his throat before the bastard can bite through his cyanide capsule.

His fingers are covered in spit and blood as the soldier struggles out of his grip, biting on his fingers as he pulls the capsule out aggressively, throwing the pill back before backhanding the man in a loud smack.

“The Red Skull – where is he.”

“Captain America,” the man laughs cruelly, although winded and weak. “I thought that last fall would have killed you but like a disgusting little cockroach you refuse to _die.”_

The comment makes him freeze, images flying through his brain a million a second before it all begins to drain into red.

“You’re going to tell me where the Red Skull is and you’re going to tell me right now before I make you _bleed._ ”

“I will not talk, Heil HYDRA! Cut one head and two more will grow in its place!”

“I can make you talk,” he pulls out the bloodied knife, “you HYDRA bitches are like snakes, right? Well let’s see if you shed like one too.”

With a quick shallow slice, the lieutenant begins to bleed from his chin and he places his knife as if in a slot, angling it upward and begins to dig _hard_ into the flesh. The man begins to scream, squirming underneath his body as he continues to cut up towards the lip – halting for a brief second.

“He’s not here!! He wouldn’t be stupid enough to return to European battle grounds when he found something in the Alps! Something he’s been looking for!”

“Where _IS HE?!”_ he roars, knife quivering as the urge to cut further boiling in his hand. He should just skin him… feed his body to dogs and fly the skin as flag of his wrath.

“Not in central Europe – maybe Russia, maybe even to the Orient where even I do not know, _Captain._ Where is your gold and patriotic heart, now?!”

The knife drops, he pulls the man’s own _Luger_ on him and inhales.

“Dead.”

The bullet glides cleanly between the eyes and he exhales, blood coating the entirety of his hands in a stark melodic contrast to the shinning blue star nestled on his chest.

“…W-well Barnes… a little… _unorthodox_ and brutal but –” he knows Montgomery is scared. He can hear his heart beating in an attempt to escape from his chest. “Schmidt’s not here, mate. Bloody bastard didn’t even think to come here. Let’s blow up this base and _get the hell out.”_

His tone is desperate and Dernier’s isn’t better.

 _“Sergent a perdu son esprit! Il est fou!!”_ Something has definitely changed within him.

 

…

His eyes are heavy, burned red with lack of any sleep and for the first time since Stella… passed, he’s been grateful that they’ve been pulled from HYDRA duty with the final stands towards Hitler and his Nazi occupied Europe trumping in priority.

Colonel Phillips also thinks he’s gone crazy in his grief, the Howlies treat him more like a prowling lion than a friend and comrade, and Stark thinks he’s bat shit crazy and never recovered from his psychological torture in Azzano – they’re all right.

He refuses to sleep ever since they’d taken on that base in Holland. Ever since he jumped a man like a crazed animal and began to peel his skin back in a thick wad of blubbery flesh. Stella talks now when he sleeps. She curses him, she lectures him, and _screams at him_ for defiling her reputation and allowing himself to disintegrate to such a high level of decay – for betraying her trust.

Peggy was right… she wouldn’t want this… hell, she’d slap him and drag him by his ear around a block or two for this. But Stella is still dead and he cannot change the past that’s paved his future in steps of frozen blood. He thinks back to the meticulously drawn picture of their wedding; every detail and shade that seemed to jump off the page and he thinks hard about what her last words to him were. _Remember us like this._

He can…. He can and it makes him cry because he misses home, he misses normalcy, he misses _her_ and he’ll never – _never_ – be able to return to that kind of life ever again. Not without her.

Just like the wet tear drop that hit her face and scattered her graphite form into a slippery mess, his life has done the same and now, he’s forcing solidification upon it. By freezing it.

Bastogne was a crucial junction point and the last important terrain that the Nazi’s absolutely couldn’t have. The Airborne boys had already been sent out into the woods surrounding the small Belgian city while infantry stayed within the city walls. It was more important than HYDRA… if the Nazis were able to capture the city… they’d be able to refuel the entire war and with it and give HYDRA a powered bulge that’d give them the edge to regroup and recover from ever blow they’ve dealt in these past few years. Everything: every death, sacrifice, and battle would have been for absolutely nothing.

So as the elite group of the Howling Commandos they were pulled – joining the Airborne in the misty, graveyard forest surrounding quiet Bastogne. They were to help lead and encourage the men in the Battle of the Bulge.

But he refused to continue wearing the suit… he refused to pretend to be what he was not and disgrace every hardship Stella had gone through in order to create her enigma as Captain America in order to do something _good_. He was just a Sergeant. Just a soldier and he’d left the shield with Peggy and the costume with Stark before Colonel Phillips had a chance to breathe down his neck. He was just Bucky Barnes and Phillips could fuck himself or lock him up before he gets drunk, mean, and spills the beans about who Captain America _really was._

He wishes he were drunk rather than patrolling and holding a front in the middle of brutal winter with little clothing, ravaged supplies, and trying to keep the man motivated as the suffered from constant artillery fire from the Krauts just _playing with them._

He used to hate winter. Winter was dangerous and with Stella sickly and small every winter was a battle ground for her survival. She’d get sick easy and one winter, a few years back, her wet cough turned into pneumonia. Within a week she’d had her final rights prayed out at least three times and he’d almost _lost her_. She loved it – treating the stupid, cold season like a challenge rather than Death exhaling onto her. She found every reason to be jolly, giving him near heart attacks on a daily when she’d stop giving a fuck and just enjoy herself in the snow.

They got married in the winter.

A month before her Ma died in January of 1940 – only a year and a bit before the Japs spat on Pearl Harbour and America officially entered the war. It was shortly after that he’d been drafted, went to Basic, and got shipped out into the bowels of hell itself.

When it’s night and the mist settles between the trees; men pretending or trying to sleep in little dug out holes, he see’s her. Dancing and twirling underneath the canopy of snow just like she did on their wedding day. He can see her mother’s dress spinning wildly since it was too big on her. She’s laughing when he’s awake.

Her dress is torn, bloody, and screaming when he sleeps.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Stella,_
> 
> _I hate this place, I hate this war, I hate being here. Doll, you don’t even know half of it. Those fucking **\--REDACTED--** in the States are twisting it all up. Those news reels you revel in are a fucking  lie ~~Sweetheart, and I feel like you’re just feeding into this bullshit~~. You’re so good Stels, but you’ve got it all fucking backwards half the time. When we first landed in **\--REDACTED--** during **\--REDACTED--** I killed my first man. _
> 
> _At first it didn’t matter, ~~Nazi Krauts~~ Germans were bastards and they were destroying Europe. We’re in it to do good, right? Well let me tell you this – what fucking good is killing a man?! Would you kill my pal Joey when he’d make a lewd comment towards a dame? Would you kill that no good bully Eugene that used to pick on you in school? ~~Would you kill me if we got into a heated argument? Fuck that shit Stella you wouldn’t kill anyone so why the fuck do you support this war so much? How can you believe in GOD and keep up with religious enthusiasm when I all I do is kill and sin.~~_
> 
> _We finally made our way through the depths of **\--REDACTED--** and I was so fucking scared Stella. I was so afraid that I would die ~~and I’d never get back to you and instead just sink into this muddy grave in~~ **\--REDACTED--** and do you know what I think? I think the Krauts feel the same way that we do. They’re just guys who are scared. Hitler screams **\--REDACTED--** Roosevelt does. I shot a man straight between the eyes Stella. I’m the **\--REDACTED--** and you know what? A buddy of mine in my platoon (I told you about him I think), Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan just laughs and says “damn you got him good, Sarge! Hitler don’t stand a chance!” and all I could think of was – what if he’s got a family just like I do?_
> 
> _This war isn’t black and white Stella ~~just like you fucking think it is.~~_
> 
> _I think I’m a little drunk. **\--REDACTED--** was a motherfucking success and while the guys are spinning with ladies and drinking, here in this little pub in l **\--REDACTED--** I’m writing a letter to  you – see what a good husband I am? I shouldn’t even fucking send a letter like this – Army Redactors going to have a hoot with all the blotching he’ll have to do (have fun you nosy motherfucker!) _
> 
> _But Babydoll, believe me… you’d be dead here. **\--REDACTED--** is a fucking hell hole, **\--REDACTED--** is a mess, and I can’t even imagine what **\--REDACTED--** must look like. God save the **\--REDACTED--** on the other side – those poor bastards need it with the **\--REDACTED--** coming in on their backside. Another buddy of mine, Gabe – he just got the news that his brother is dead in **\--REDACTED--** and he hasn’t been the same. He’s taking in real hard...  I’ve seen too many young guys with a lion’s heart like you get ripped apart by bullets for being careless. I want to have someone to come home too ~~… please Stella – PLEASE just stay in place for me, alright? I know you got bugs crawling up your ass and it isn’t possible to sit down but~~ if you love me you’ll try. ~~I know what the doctors said… but maybe… maybe when I come back we can try to start a family? They don’t even have to be ours – maybe some punk ass street kids who seen too much hurt. Some kid with your attitude and my good looks and they could be ours.~~ _
> 
> _Don’t fucking listen to me I’m drunk. I shouldn’t even send this – but if you ever appreciated anything it was my blunt fucking honesty._
> 
> _But you know you have my love so send me back some too,_
> 
> _Yours Always,_
> 
> _Bucky_

 

…

 

 

“What’s with Sergeant Barnes? He never used to be this gloomy before Azzano!”

“His wife’s gone, kid.”

“Oh shit -- she divorce him? ‘Lotta guys been getting divorce letters lately…”

“No, Joe. His wife recently _passed._ She’s _gone._

“Yeah wasn’t she with the Nurse Corps platoon in Holland? Apparently the Krauts have been bombing our girls out makin’ sure the soldiers can’t be treated… ”

“You’d think that Captain America would be saving _us_ instead of sending out his team and going on those solo coverts, am I right?”

“Shut up man! How’d you feel if you lost your wife? He’s been nothing but _miserable_ and I don’t fucking blame him!”

He can hear them gossiping… although he knows that he shouldn’t. The same way his toes should be frozen and decaying with his fingers bursting from the frost bite. He doesn’t know what these changes are… but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that these… changes have been in him since Italy when needles made his blood turn into fire. He hadn’t noticed -- hadn’t _cared_ to notice since his main concern was keeping Stella’s ass safe. But now that he thinks about it, something's been steaming in him for a while. He was a damn good sniper, but suddenly he just didn’t fucking _miss_ anymore because he could _sense_ where the next guy would pop up. He had been able to keep up with running after Stella without wasting a breath, and his bruises and injuries would heal in weeks as opposed to months.

His hearing… his hearing was unnatural… _supernatural_ with every twitch, whimper, and sigh he could hear, along with the stinging whistle of --

“Into your fox holes!” he roars, jumping to his feet and running back to where the majority of men were residing.

_“Sergeant?!”_

_“Into your foxholes, NOW!”_

Only a few listened, scrambling into their pathetic holes of frozen protection before the first shell hit. The loud whistle from before was screeching in his ears; the bombarding of fire always short and sporadic; but deadly enough to kill and maim a good handful of men at a time.

He swept through the exploding trees, the frozen chunks of wood often proving more deadly than the metal shrapnel from the Germans’ artillery fire. Most of the soldiers had made it into their holes, but he couldn’t be sure. He scooped the area like he would when looking for Stella within the chaos of taking down a HYDRA base with a buzzing of sensations before he could feel it -- another implosion of artillery erupting a tree and the drumming of human flesh connecting with the ground. He forced himself to move, drowning out the howling of Dum Dum as he wailed for him to get into the nearest pit before he got blown to bits. He couldn’t… it was a young one, Alfred. Young, scrawny, blonde haired; a big doe, blue-eyed child that had no place in a war. Too stubborn to go down without a fight. He was like Stella.

Kid was on the ground… still breathing as much as he could hear, and he didn’t hesitate to barrel against the frozen tundra, grab the dazed boy in his arms and slide into the nearest foxhole with Falsworth screaming bloody murder of his name. The shelling continued… for a few more seconds… seconds that seemed to freeze in time… just like they used to on Coney Island during July 4th. Stella would always stare out the window wistfully, her deep blue orbs flashing with every clear spark in the sky. Alfred’s blues were just as illuminated… sparkling with a sheen of fear that mimicked the vicious bursting of the trees around them. Sparks that left him choking. He could still see that spark _when she’d furiously thrown herself after him, kicking him up with all --_

Montgomery suddenly clapped his arm around his shoulder with a somewhat hysterical laughter bubbling from his throat.

“ _Bloody hell Barnes_ , you’ve really fallen off your rocker, haven’t you?”

He shrugged in response, before looking down at the young Airborne sandwiched between them.

“You okay, kid?” he rumbled, watching Alfred stare at him as if her were the _sun_ , nodding rapidly before his eyes darted towards Falsworth.

“T-thanks Sarge. For a second a really thought I was a goner!”

“Don’t mention it,” he grunts in warning, closing his eyes and trying to drown out the painful screech of the shelling as it blasted trees open and scattered bullet like wood that hissed as it flew through the air – this time not piercing a single one of them as far as he could tell.

They got lucky this time… Real fucking lucky. But he can’t tell anymore whether if it’s some kind of supernatural guidance, or if its tainted luck because of the curse he’s been carrying with him since Azzano.

 

 

…

 

 

“How can you tell?”

“Tell what?” he mumbles around his cigarette, leaning into Gabe’s shaking hand so the Private can light it.

“How can you tell when the shelling’s about to go off?”

“Just a lucky feelin’, I guess,” he shrugs sucking on the filter greedily and exhaling before glaring at the way Gabe’s helmet clatters against his head from the way he’s been shivering. There was no way he was about to share that he can hear the click of the ammunition the moment before the shell fires. “Ya’ know, some of that good ol’ Brooklyn charm.”

“Fuck you man,” Gabe laughs, lighting his own cigarette before pointing the burning end at him seriously. “No for real, _how can you tell.”_

 _“Sniper intuition_ ya’ shit. Some goddamn HYDRA hoodoo voodoo -- the fuck should I know?”

“It’s weird.”

“ _You’re weird.”_

“Children,” Dum Dum chastises from above, slinking into their foxhole. “Greedy children with a fuck ton of cigarettes, come share with your good pal Dugan --”

“You’re too dumb to smoke Dum Dum! It’ll fry the remainder of your pitiful brain cells ya’ big, dumb, _fuck.”_

 _“_ Retract those claws, pussycat!”

“ _The fuck did you just call me?!”_

“You rationed sugar, Sugar? Give a man a _taste.”_

“Shut the fuck up guys!” Gabe hissed, smacking them upside their heads. “You want those Kraut motherfuckers to hear where we’ve dug out our new foxholes? _Jesus fucking Christ!”_

“I got the hoodoo -- remember Jones?”

“ _Who doo?_ ”

“You doo.”

“The-fuck-doo!?”

_“Voodoo.”_

“Barnes here always knows when the shells are about the hit, Dugan. You don’t think that’s weird?”

“He’s a weird guy and a crazy good sniper. Maybe it's just sniper intuition?”

“ _I goddamn told you so Jones.”_

Gabe only sighs deeply, stubbing out the remainder of his cigarette in ice before rubbing his hands together.

“I don’t care how you can tell – I’m just fucking happy that you _can._ Major was tellin’ me that they were losin’ at least two guys a day from the shelling alone. And that’s not just ‘cause of the injuries. With practically no medical supplies they can’t even create tourniquets to stop minor bleeding from getting worse. I think I saw Morita and the other medics begging guys for any medical supplies they could spare like morphine or even a pair of fucking scissors to make some more bandages with.”

“Well we got no choice right?” Dugan grunts, snuggling closer to them and pulling down his helmet. They’d all ditched their “Commandos” suits before the battle, because he made them. He told them the night before their departure to Bastogne that he wouldn’t touch the shield and that was final. Shockingly, they had listened and so here they were: dressed like all the other soldiers in pathetically thin coats not suited for the winter. Funny enough, Dugan definitely looked naked and cold without that stupid hat on and as much as he hated the impracticality of his iconic blue coat, he wouldn’t mind having it now to share.

“Can’t get any airdrops in so long as the sky ain’t clear of that damn misted fog and when a few us went to talk with the Major, he said the Krauts got Bastogne completely surrounded. It’s a contest to death boys and I sure as hell ain’t going down without a fight. We’ve survived worse than this, right? So long as HYDRA doesn’t decide to crash the party.”

“Yeah, but what’s a victory if half of us die, Dum Dum? Or if we all freeze and starve to death? Besides, lotta guys are getting shell-shocked too,” he grumbles, taking a few more drags of the butt before he throw it out of their pit, ignoring the strange way Dugan looks at him.

“Quit ya’ staring Dugan I ain’t no fuckin’ dame – and you know I’m right. So what if we win? What about the guys who go home with their minds and bodies lookin’ like goddamn Swiss cheese, huh?”

“Well then I say thank the Virgin Mary and her blessed, bouncin’, baby, boy Jesus that you got some kind of hoodoo voodoo Barnes,” Gabe laughs despite the clatter of his trembling teeth. “Men feel safer with you around. Everyone looks less depressed and starving when they know your crazy ass will run out of a foxhole to save them and you’re not even wearing the cowl.” 

Gabe grabs his shoulder, smiling at him weakly with thinned, blue-skinned, lips. “Glad that you’re with us man,” he genuinely speaks before wrapping his hands back around himself. Ever since they’ve arrived at Bastogne and reintegrated with some kind of normalcy – even _within_ this stupid war – they’ve started warming up to him again. Started realizing that this craze of his was grief, the anger due to the unfairness and cruelty of forcing him to take upon the shield, and the numbness because he doesn’t even know _what_ he should feel. He appreciate their devotion… _their friendship towards him_ so he’ll fight with them – but that’s it.

He doesn’t share with them how staring at the half frozen, moaning bodies make him think of Stella dead and frozen… of whether or not she died upon impact or her last remaining breathes were prayers for someone to come and _find her_. Peggy had apparently sent some people to find the body but – nothing… so he doesn’t join the others often. He’s become reclusive – preferring to scope out their thin, warn out, territories and sniping stray Germans creeping forward into their older, blown out, foxhole trenches. He doesn’t share that when he’s alone he sees grief ridden delusions of her. The other soldiers think he’s some kind of unstoppable force that isn’t afraid of anything. He doesn’t run from the living – he runs from the dead.

He’s unstoppable because he won’t let there be any more dead.

He doesn’t tell them that the only reason he runs out is with the secret hope that maybe a jagged pound of tree might nail him. He doubts it’ll kill him, since apparently, all he can do is _survive._ Maybe Stella’s ghost was cursing them with the mist. He’s already ditched the costume and despite his growing disgust with this war and the politics behind it, he’s gotta try to do some good. If anything, for the naïve soldiers like Stella – those who still believe in _good_ despite so much _bad_.  He can deal with his self-hatred later. For now, he’s gotta do some good. For her. For Stella.

Maybe then his cursed luck will bring some actual fortune because he doesn’t quite know anymore whether or not his guilt is ravaging him alive like the ravine that killed her, or if her spirit is haunting him for not saving her. For abusing her cowl. _For betraying her._

Gabe continues to shiver, pulling his hands out from where he’d shoved them under his armpits a few seconds ago and stares at the dark skin – more blue at the finger tips. Slowly he touches them, pressing down on the tip of one of his fingers before the frozen skin bursts and blood begins to flow.

“ _Jesus Christ Jones!_ ” he sneered, ripping the thin gloves off his own hands. “If your fingers are fuckin’ blue you don’t just fucking _pinch them_ Gabe!! Morita already told you your frost bite was bad, ya’ goddamn idiot!”

Dugan seems jolted awake, pulling a small handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around Gabe’s cold-blooded finger. “Dammit Gabe you’re supposed to be the smart one! You studied at _Howard_ for Christ’s sake!”

“I don’t even know man,” Gabe moaned staring down at his hand in shock. “Jim said it was bad but I just couldn’t _feel it_ anymore. I didn’t know it was _that bad_!”

“Yeah? _Well it’s that bad,”_ he hissed, before handing over his gloves. “Keep these on you, a’right? I know you gave yours up to Morita for some guy whose bite was worse. But these are _mine_ and you _don’t fuckin’ loose them._ ”

“What about you, Bucky?”

“Me? Nah I ain’t even that cold,” he grinned weakly, shuffling closer to Gabe, pressing against him for warmth while Dugan wrapped the blanket tighter around the three of them.

“Barnes, even _I’m cold._ But now that you mention it, you’re the only one who hasn’t been shivering their ass off like the rest of us.”

“I’m from Brooklyn, Timothy, some stupid snow ain’t gonna get me cold.”

“So..? -- I’m from Boston.”

“Boston winters ain’t got _nothin’_ on Brooklyn ya’ stupid son of a bitch.”

He’ll never admit to them that he hasn’t felt cold since Azzano.

“Ya? Well fuck you, ya’ pompous _New Yorker_.”

“Shaddup, Jersey fuck, _whadda you know about the cold_.”

“Fellas my fingers and balls are about to fall off and I don’t wanna die stuck between you two loudmouths!”

They finally fall silent… and he doesn’t mean to get angry, but he can’t help but dig his fingers into his skin a little deeper as their huddled breaths meld together. He hated winter and Brooklyn winters were the worst. Brooklyn winters were when work was slow so the pay was less and expenses were greater because of the cold weather. Brooklyn winters almost killed her every year with their shitty apartment that barley heated and how often he’d lose jobs from staying by her bedside until his mother finally found out a couple years back when he wouldn’t let their pride rule them any longer. Then it’d been his mother, his eldest sister Rebecca, and Rosie taking turns since the job he’d landed at the docks was _good fucking pay_ and Tony had given him the warning that he was close to getting fired because of the absences.

He remembers after her mother died they couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes when the electrical bill went up and Stella had to stuff _his_ old shoes with newspapers for size and warmth. It was only once summer rolled around and she’d gotten the newspaper job through Rosie and they could afford more. He thinks of how ridiculous she’d look in shoes twice her size stuffed the brim with newspaper just so her feet wouldn’t freeze off…

“How about your feet?” He suddenly asks, thinking that if Gabe’s hands were that bad…

“Freezing. Wet. Numb.”

“You been listening to Morita, right?” He looks over, checking Gabe’s neck for a pair of socks. “You keep _two_ pairs and when the ones you wear get wet, you wrap them around your neck and switch out for a pair of dry ones. Cold dry is better and a lot fucking safer than cold wet.”

Gabe curls into a ball shaking his head in a frost lulled sleepiness. None of them have been eating much – mostly lukewarm coffee and thick, gross soups and he could see the bags pushing out from under his eyes; his cheekbones getting sharper.  

“Both of mine are wet man, ever since I fell into an abandoned, swamped trench with thin ice. Broke right through it got both of em’ soaked since it was so fucking cold I wore both pairs that day. My dumb fucking luck, right?”

He sighs, untangling the warm dry pair from around his neck and handing it to Gabe.

“No way man – you already gave me your gloves!”

“I’ll be fine Gabby. I ain’t even switch out yet.”

He didn’t get cold; most he felt was a gentle chill. His feet were reddish pink with warm blood circulating his veins that even warmed up his socks if they ever got wet. He was _changed_ and he can still feel the needle piercing his skin and fire exploding through him. He could still feel that _heat._

“You’re fuckin’ nuts man. Crazy motherfucking Brooklynite – you absolutely _sure_ – ”

“ _Yes,_ Jesus Christ just _take em’._ I told you before,” he mumbles, thinking of how he’d numbed down to his core, not really feeling anything anymore.

“… I ain’t even that cold.”

 

 

…

 

 

If they wanted to get out of Bastogne alive without being choked into a submission of death, then they needed to gain some leverage soon before they’d all starve and freeze to death. More so, not only was the small, nearby village of Foy completely occupied by the Germans, reports dictated that it was saturated with supplies ranging of food, clothing, weapons, and _tanks_ and they just _could not afford_ to wait for the skies to clear any longer. Foy was also closer to German territory and with their stubborn hold on Bastogne, gaining Foy back was a way to embody General McAuliffe’s _“nuts!”_ policy in regards to surrender. Capturing Foy was a bigger “fuck you” to the Germans than simply surviving Bastogne.

However, if they wanted to survive the Battle of the Bulge, this attack had to be _successful._ It had to be _perfectly executed._

And yet they – the Howling Commandos -- were forced to stay back.

He looks at the Major and General a few feet away from him; veteran Airborne soldiers combing through the frozen tundra slowly before a sniper would spot their position and blow the entire attack. But how the hell were they supposed to surprise a fortified town full of _warm, fed, healthy_ Germans when they like sitting ducks through a god damn open field?

He clenches his clammy hand into a fist with the rush of warm blood pounding his body full of adrenaline. They should have been sent in – not these guys. He doesn’t care how elite the Airborne boys are. Phillips had sent them to Bastogne as the one of the most elite special ops groups. They’d blow HYDRA bases to hell and back with less men, more Germans, and a million more dangerous odds against them. He didn’t understand why they were forced to sit back and watch from over the hill. Were they treated as back up? If one of the soldiers fucked up they’d be sent in to clean up the mess?

He rather it be him. He rather he got shot at with the Commandos but have an actual strategy that would _work_ instead of watching more men be ripped apart like useless rag dolls because of stupidity. The simplicity of the flank attack should work… but these boys were tired, hungry, _cold_ and no matter how much the appearance of the Howling Commandos had increased moral there wasn’t much they could do for combat exhaustion and shell shock. The human body had limitations.

Limitations he didn’t have anymore… ever since he’d protected his men and offered himself as sacrifice so the Krauts would leave the rest alone. He’d volunteered without knowing the… _modifications_ and torture he’d be forced to go through.

He’s thought a lot about it… and it hurts him so bad to think about it. He’s become a bastardized version of the shinning perfection of what Stella _was._

Some kind of “super soldier”.

He didn’t _have_ limitations anymore.

Morita bursts his bubble of withdrawn isolation by coming up to stand beside him. He was behind the group, not wanting to witness whether the flank would potentially go well or blow up in their faces. He’d _tried_ to talk to the Lieutenant leading the group before the assault; tried to give the man some encouraging words and tactic strategies to ensure success and survival… but he’d known that his words would be wasted the moment he’d come up to Lieutenant Dike. He’d heard the man’s heart viciously thrashing against his chest and seen the quiver in his eyes.

Fear. Uncontrollable fear.

Fear would get them all killed.

“It’s not going to work,” he mumbles under his breath as Morita stands beside him firmly, assessing his stance with a critical, medical eye.

“You should have more faith in them, Bucky,” he mutters, gaze not leaving his own. “Just because they’re not the _Howling Commandos_ doesn’t mean they aren’t capable.”

“Jim,” he hisses, meeting warm, dark eyes. “You know better than I do as a medic… these men aren’t in condition to fight against well-equipped _Germans – ”_ he cuts himself off, knowing that they’ve greatly overcome the odds in this war against “Germans”. He doesn’t mean that they don’t have a chance – Stella had proven that they _did_. Inhaling deeply, he exhales his nausea of emotion before reiterating: “Dike’s scared as _piss_.”

“Lieutenant Dike?” the shorter men questions, eyes finally creasing in thought. “Found it weird that a Lieutenant was always hiding and was hard to locate. Spent a whole fucking day trying to track his foxhole down just to ask if he’d share some of his morphine, Jesus. You talk to him?”

“I did, just before we marched out. He’d asked if we’d be commanding the mission an’ the moment I said “no sir, just here to observe with the General, sir,” he’d almost jumped out of his damn boots like a fucking rabbit.”

They stay silent, observing the men creeping closer towards the outskirts of the village before he speaks again:

“He’s gonna get 'em all killed. And we’re gonna have to take over and clean up the fucking _mess.”_

_“Bucky – ”_

_“No Jim,”_ he spits, finger nails biting through his fists. “You and the other Medics better get ready 'cause you’ll have a lot of saving to do by the end of today.”

The men begin to run, the sound of machine guns clattering aggressively drowning in his ears at the sound of German artillery bombing before the first whistle of a sniper spikes his attention. He jerks up, watching men begin to fall like flies as a sniper takes them out from in the village. From the shots, he can pinpoint the sniper… somewhere low; not at a high point and deep enough that he feels safe firing at a quick pace.

“Keep moving!!” the Major screams at the sight of Lieutenant Dike stopping midfield – a few boys with him as the rest scatter like _bugs_ , falling into disorganized chaos.

They didn’t know what they were doing… _why would he stop in the middle of a fucking field?!_

“ _Jesus Christ,_ ” Morita breathed, taking a few steps forward at the horror before them. A few of the men were attempting to find cover, another couple of groups moving forward and trying to take out the Germans that were _massacring_ them.  It’s faint… but when he concentrates, he can almost make out what they were saying.

Dike wasn’t giving them any orders… like the rabbit he’d frozen at the sight of the wolf and had taken off – sitting like some goddamn ducks that were about to get _slaughtered_ –

He can’t take it. He rips his rifle off his back and begins to sprint forward, ignoring the calls of the General screaming “ _you get back here right now Sergeant Barnes”_ and Dum Dum immediately jumping in with the Major at his defense. He doesn’t care at whatever discipline he’ll have to face later. He can’t just let them _die._

He runs as fast as his legs take him, being aware of the shelling as it blasted a crater before him. He jumps over, whizzing past the artillery fire and the shrieks of bombardment to the frozen hay stack where Dike is quivering with fear. Soldiers are screaming around him, holding the radio, _shaking him_ in an attempt to snap the man out of the shocking fear that’d frozen him to his bones. He slides against the snow, falling to his knees as sniping bullet zips past his head. He grabs Dike’s shoulder, squeezing them firmly before speaking loudly, “I’m taking over.”

He doesn’t stay any longer, running over to the next stack, jumping as artillery fire explodes behind him and falling into a roll so that he’s out of sight, crawling over to where a Sergeant under Dike’s command sits, observing the situation in Foy from afar.

“Whadda we got?”

Relief washes over his face before he voices, “Sir, most of the company is spread out here. First platoon tried to go around but their stretched out and they’re pinned down by a sniper. I believe he’s in the building with the caved in roof, sir!”

“Okay,” he inhales, before speaking quickly, “Mortars and grenade launchers on that building, till it’s gone, when it’s gone I want first to go straight in – forget going around. Everyone else follows me!”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just begins to run through the open field without any thought of using the shambles of Foy as cover, knowing that at this point it was life or death. They’ve lost their element of surprise and everyone was scattered and confused. He’d need to hook up with the companies manually and even if he could run around the entire village without wasting a breath, he’d only be wasting time. He’s seen Stella pull a move like this hundreds of times with her bullheaded recklessness. Usually, he’d lose his mind over her charging head first into battle but it did have one major advantage: It was shocking. So shocking because _who the hell would just run head first against an army and its tanks?_ If anything, the Germans were easily flummoxed by Stella’s headfirst charge – her signature move in tight situations where stealth wouldn’t help them for long.

He may not be wearing the suit anymore, and he sure as hell wasn’t Stella, but he runs.

Straight through the center of the village, passing by Germans standing up with their guns up and mouths down in absolute _shock_. He took the chance and sprinted with a force, using his speed to his advantage before bounding over the broken wall where the remainder of the company was hiding – picking up a distinct screech of agony the moment a few final grenades went off; effectively stopping the sniper that had pinned the company down in the beginning of the attack.

“You boys alright?” he smiles wickedly, unable to contain the absurdity of the situation. _What Stella would say to see him follow her own crazy fucking tactics. “Pot meet kettle,” she’d probably huff, pushing him firmly and bully him a bit when she’d get mad. “Here you are, givin’ me some goddam lecture when you end up doing the same thing, Buck!”_

“Sniper’s down, forget going around. Hook up with E company and wait for my signal!”

And before he’d even processed the collectively shocked “Sir, yes sir’s!” he’s bounding over the wall again, coming back the way he came. This time, the Germans actually broke out of their haze and _shot_ at him the moment their own disbelief dispersed and they _still_ can’t nail him. He can use their lingering confusion to his advantage for a few more seconds. Instead of going around the inactive tank, he jumps _onto_ it – ripping open the hatch and ignoring the screaming frenzy of German as he pulls a grenade off his shoulder, throws the sucker inside before closing the hatch. He leaps off the tail end of the _Tiger_ tank and shoots a man with a machine gun square between the eyes before the trigger goes off and slides home to where the E company was sitting.

They’re smiling, grins only widening at the sound of the tank imploding. With the companies recommunicated, the sniper and the main tank in the center of the town gone, the situation was finally resolved and full of direction. The Airborne could now effectively move in and proceed with taking Foy as planned.

“Sergeant Barnes, you’re one crazy motherfucker!” one of the Privates shouts out, laughing at him before bounding over the wreckage to assist I company in their storming of the town square.

“Holy shit Sergeant Barnes, the Germans _still_ can’t nail you even when you’re standing there at point-fucking-blank range!!”

“Obviously man! Captain America picked him _himself_ to be part of the Howling Commandos! You think he did it just ‘cause they were close pals?”

“Who needs that goddamn Captain America anyway!? We don’t even need the _Howlies_ with Sergeant Barnes here!”

“Nothing can stop the Sergeant!”

“ _Yeah!_ Not fucking Nazis, bullets, shells, _hell_ – he even made this goddamn, freezing, winter his bitch!”

“The hell would we do without you?!”

“Fuck Captain America and his coverts – we got the _Winter Soldier!_ ”

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Stella,_
> 
> _Now that I’m officially in war I don’t know how often I can write to you -- and I’m going to say sorry right now. I can’t say a lot. They got army redactors monitoring what we say in these letters Doll, and I’m allowed to say much. But for now know this: I’m safe. Tired, but safe for now. Missing’ you a ton._
> 
> _Got some friends here that I met in Basic: Timothy Dugan and Gabe Jones. We call Dugan ‘Dum Dum’ since he’s got this big stupid moustache right out of the 20s and a stupid hat he refuses to take off. Seriously. He argued with our Staff Sergeant for hours just to wear the stupid thing. Helmet’s much safer then wearing a hat but they still isn’t bullet proof. Dugan doesn’t care much, says if he’s going to get shot in the head, he’s going to get shot in the head and there isn’t anything to it. He’s from Boston though – you know how they get. _
> 
> _Gabe’s a smart, colored fella who studied at Howard University and I think you’d like him Stels. Big heart and he’s fluent in both German and French. He likes to sing loud in that bluesy jazz you love so much and hates bullies who think they can walk all over people just because they got power. I told him he reminds me of my wife and he says “you getting sweet on me Bucky? ‘Cause I hate to break it to ya’ pal, you just ain’t my type of dame.”_
> 
> _It’s like a whole other world over here in Europe, Stella. You know I can’t draw for shit, but let me tell you about it: I never knew what “rolling meadows” meant till I saw it myself. The hills are small, bumpy, and they look almost like a wave – rolling in motion. Except instead of that sporadic sea water its flowers. Sweet smelling flowers with long grass that’s so colorful I drown in it like an ocean. I tried pressing some that I collected during a weekend so you could see them. Let me know if they look alright? I wish I can bring you here one day when there isn’t a war. We can go through these meadows together and just breathe in fresh air that isn’t stunk up by the city. I love Brooklyn, Sweetheart – almost as much as I love you but this… this is something fresh that makes me feel alive._
> 
> _You and these sights are what’s giving me strength. We’re getting shipped towards the front lines in a couple days and I’m not going to lie to you Stella… I’m scared. But we got a lot of good boys here and we’re too stubborn to go down without a fight. Guess I took some of your stupid with me after all._
> 
> _Don’t you worry about a thing though Sweetheart, no need for your crazy ass trying to get over here through the Nurse Corps! We’ll win this war before you know it!_
> 
> _Sending all my love pressed into these tiny colored flowers,_
> 
> _‘Till the end of the line and beyond,_
> 
> _Bucky_

 

 

…

 

 

 

“Johann Schmidt belongs in a bug house he thinks he’s a god and is willing to blow up half of the world to prove it – _starting_ with the U.S.A,” Colonel Phillips begins in a toneless drawl as they discuss their next move.

After the Attack on Foy, they’d gained enough ground and supplies to survive for a few more days before the sky had finally cleared and they were finally able to have supplies airdropped. Bastogne was a success and the Allies were finally able to start chasing Hitler back into Germany. All that was left… was HYDRA and the Red Skull.

“Schmidt’s working with powers beyond our capabilities,” Stark continues, glancing at him nervously as he’s donned the Captain America suit again. He hadn’t been disciplined per say… but after the Bastogne soldiers took it upon themselves to calling him the _Winter Soldier_ , the nickname had taken like wildfire and had already begun to spread amongst the ranks. Phillips had _not_ been impressed with a new mythos forming while the legend and glory of Captain America still dominated – and he’d be damned if he lost it. So the _Winter Soldier_ had to be erased; nothing more than a silly name for crazy Sergeant Barnes while Captain America and his Howling Commandos and “ _Winter Soldier”_ continued to work as a well-rounded unit.

“If Schmidt gets across the Atlantic?” Stark continued, shaking his head, “then he’ll blow up the entire Eastern seaboard in an _hour_.”

Eastern Seaboard… New York… _home_.

“How much time we got?” Jones asks, gaze flickering between him and Colonel Phillips.

“Well,” he starts, pulling out a photo, “according to my new best friend under twenty-four hours.”

“Where is he now?”

“HYDRA’s last base is here – ” he points to the photo. “In the Alps, five hundred feet below the surface.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Morita asks, the heavy weight of the air within the room finally crushing their shoulders. “It’s not like we can just knock on the front door.”

Stella would have. Stella would find a way to break down the walls and dive in head first with or without a plan. She’d do whatever she could to stop the Red Skull and his plan to blow up the world… the U.S.A… Brooklyn and _home_. _I’m just a girl from Brooklyn_ she’d always smile sheepishly after blowing up a HYDRA base with her short, wheat colored hair blowing in the wind when she’d take off the stifling helmet. Healthy, thick, and _strong_ yet still as thin and smooth as it had been when she was small and her strands had been _long._

It was then that you could see her more feminine features: her long blonde lashes framing cornflower eyes like the sun would across the ocean and the gentle dusting of freckles that ran across the bridge of her curved nose like the course sand underneath. Her face was the one thing that hadn’t changed after the serum – other than simply gaining a healthier glow to it. She still had high cheekbones and her nose would still crinkle the same way then she’d get irritated; thin, pastel lips pursed at him in dissatisfaction when he’d tease her relentlessly. _Say what you want, but Brooklyn’s my home and that’s where I’m from._

His home was with _her_ and he’d follow her to the ends of the earth… _he should have followed her off the train_. But if he’d done one thing right after her death, it was finally taking off the costume and doing some good just because it was the right thing to do and nothing else. If he was going to keep wearing this costume against his will, then he’d do it to honor her and their home.

He’d do it just like she would.

“Why not?” he questions, all eyes turning towards him in a snap. “That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”

 

 

…

 

 

He’d always hated when she rode a motorcycle. Bikes were dangerous and she could barely pilot a _car_ on a good day. Bikes were volatile; open space, easy to destroy, with little coverage. They were also _very useful_ when you need to jump off and fly down nose deep into trouble.

That’s exactly what he does; using the _shield_ of all things as a trusted weapon.

Plowing headfirst into Johann Schmidt’s final stronghold, he’s inducing a motorcycle rampage. Helmet tight on his head and sealing his identity, he uses the force of the bike’s speed to his advantage and throws the shield as hard as he can, watching it bounce off one of the soldiers to his close left before catching it as it boomeranged back. He doesn’t hesitate to continue his one man assault, releasing a trigger off the handle bar and ejected a line; catching a few other soldiers by the neck and bringing their bikes _down_. He’s still brutal in the way he kills: driving up as close as he can to crack skulls with the blunt force of the shield, shooting out gas tanks and watching the explosion devour a cyclist within seconds, and finally, driving up the side slope of Schmidt’s little fortress before vaulting himself off the bike and watching it crash into the main entrance in a fiery eruption.

There are so many… and can help but ignore his thoughts and let instinct take control. There are soldiers in _massive_ bionic suits with flamethrowers attached to their arms and slowly creating a perimeter around him. It doesn’t help that it gives him little room to fight his way out of this, shielding himself from the blue laser blasts from the HYDRA guns while firing off his pistol at a rate that leaves the barrel scorching the glove on his hand. He takes out five more before the flaming border is set in place with buzzing weapons pointed at his face. He can’t get out this one.

But something twists in his gut; a kind of fighting spirit that tells him it’s not over yet.

When he’s dragged to the Red Skull… seeing Schmidt walk around the large room like a _god_ makes him feel something snap within him; something deep and primitive with the sudden urge to kill the man by beating him to death with his wife’s own shield.

“Arrogance,” he drawls in accented English from afar, “may not be a uniquely American trait but I must say you do it better than anyone.” Schmidt continues his prowl closer towards him and he can feel this beast inside him growling and snarling louder with ever step. “There are limits to what even _you_ can do – but wait… – _oh_. _Oh well isn’t this a surprise!_ ” The deranged Johann leers, cackling madly as he continues to walk towards him before he roughly rips the leather helmet off his head.

“Looks like our reports were correct after all. Your lovely _Lady Liberty_ really did die when she fell off the train, didn’t she?”

He doesn’t react… _he can’t react_ because he doesn’t want to return to that moment. He doesn’t want to think about it…

“You didn’t honestly think I couldn’t tell that Captain America and Lady Liberty were the same person, did you? We had agents there who witnessed her very transformation! _Did you forget our first meeting when she’d so foolishly saved you?_ We know _everything_ about you and your little wife _Barnes._ But now I’m curious… did it hurt? When you _dropped her?”_

_No no no no no --_

“Zola said he could _hear_ her scream – ”

She didn’t scream. She stared at him with those big doe eyes _smiling._

Schmidt punches him square across the jaw and he doesn’t react. Back hands him savagely, knees him in the gut excruciatingly hard until he falls over from the human _pain_ beginning to blossom across his body and yet he’s still frozen – _can’t react because he can still see her falling. It was never her who was screaming. He was the one who had been desperately screaming with his hand stretched out – the weight of the shield still against his arm as he called out her name only to have it drowned out by the screeching wind and the force of the train zooming away._

“Ahh but it does not matter anymore. Now that we have you there is no one who can take up the shield any longer.  This time we will kill Captain America once and for all.”

He lifts his head up, feeling the blood run down his nose and it reminds him that he’s still alive… he’s still _human enough to bleed. Human enough_ to feel anger, grief, hatred _and love_ for his wife… Stella whom he was trying to _honour_ now instead of the dark twisting path he’d so quickly accepted before.

He stares Schmidt right and the eye and hisses through his bloodied teeth:

“ _Nuts!”_

The Howling Commandos come crashing through the windows; guns blazing as they zip line through the glass in a chaotic flurry of hot barrels firing hundreds of rounds. HYDRA soldiers begin to fall as they continue their assault, only to have Schmdit run away in the pandemonium. Breaking the neck of the final soldier holding him down, he begins to run after him only to stop when Falsworth calls out, _“Barnes!”_

Turning briefly, he catches the shield thrown at him on reflex, staring down at it as Montgomery salutes him off, smiling sheepishly as he hollers, “You might need it!” before turning his attention back towards the rest of the soldiers that refuse to go down.

There’s a certain gleam that catches the shield; a shine despite the scratched paint and scars that adorn it. He hates it. Hates what it represents, hates what it did to his wife, _how it transformed her_ and yet –

It’s still a piece of her that’s left with him.

He nods curtly, slips his arm into the grip behind the shield, and runs off.

 

 

…

 

 

How he followed Schmidt, made his way onto the plane with Peggy and General Phillips help amongst the chaos of the battle is nothing more than a blur of adrenaline and this intense need burning in his bones to make Schmidt _suffer._ This darkness only continues to grow as he runs around the cockpit of the massive _Valkyrie_ plane that looks like something from the future, dodging singeing blue beams with Stella’s shield as the hellish mad man continues to taunt him.

“I’ve heard that you received a new name after Belgium?”

He bounces off another blast, gritting his teeth as it reverberates just inches above the Red Skull’s head.

 “ _Winter Soldier,_ is it? I know what runs through your veins, Sergeant!”

He tries angling the shield, running circles around Schmidt like an idiot as they try to tag each other. If only he could get some kind of _opening_ –

“You are nothing more than a bastard of what she and I were!”

“You’re fucking insane!! No wonder Erskine abandoned you! _”_

 “No, Sergeant, he was scared of my potential! And if anyone is losing their minds than it is _YOU!”_

He finally gets the angle right, and he’s able to force Schmidt to move into the direction he wants him too when he pulls a knife out of his thigh pocket and throws it; watching it just miss Johann’s trigger holding arm.

“The serum _amplifies_ our qualities and _yours_ is powered by your grief and torture! So _hate me Sergeant!_ Let it fester and consume you as her arrogance and love for you consumed her!”

He snaps; uncaring of the opening he leaves as he throws the shield with all his power – shocking himself with the force. Schmidt unsurprisingly moves away, but the shield continues to twirl, smashing right into the glowing cubic device. Schmidt snarls at him, but his words are no longer understandable. The cube burns bright, pulsating spastically before a bright light erupts through the ceiling. He watches Schmidt as his red skin beings to shriek off his face and the man is obliterated out of this world; burning alive with an ear-splitting screech before the light vanishes.

The Red Skull is dead.

He doesn’t dwell on it, uncertain of what he just witnessed and uncaring. He leaps in the pilot seat and feels his heart stutter at the set coordinates for the first bomb – New York City.

He looks up, vision swimming amongst the pastel skyline. It’s so peaceful in contrast the anarchy that just happened, that’s happening within him, and that will happen when this deadly cargo reaches its destination. He can’t see the ocean beneath the _Valkyrie’s_ underbelly, but he feels enchanted by the uncaring softness of the clouds; gentle oranges and pinkish, warm hues that paint the horizon. It reminds him of the flower fields in Britain that he had so painstakingly tried to describe to her before they’d been shipped forward to the march of D-Day. The yellows, the aroma, the sheer tenderness of the petals beneath his fingertips as he tried to collect a few buds to press and send to her. Stella had loved them and he’d noticed a few stuck between the pages of her notebook.

She would have loved to see a sunset like this; something so large and bright that wasn’t cast in the shadows of the city, _of home_. He wonders if Joey and Tony are still alive and if they are, all in one piece, he hopes they’ll make it back to Brooklyn. They were both good guys and he wouldn’t have traded friends like them for anything. He hopes Tony will finally grow a pair and instead of going on numerous dates that even left _him_ shaking his head, and he’ll finally ask Rosie out. She’d say yes. One time when she and Stella had been painting together he’d overheard them gossiping, _Stella, dear, how’d you ever get Bucky to stop horsing around and finally let you make an honest man outta him?_ Stella had only laughed, loud and bright in response. _I’ll tell you a secret Rosie, Bucky and I – we’ve been it for each other since we were brats. Sure he used to be a ladies man, but you know what? When I finally dragged him by the collar and strangled the truth outta him he was a goner. Sometimes boys are just scared, you know?_ But Rosie wasn’t all brash like Stella who just didn’t understand the concept of defeat. But somehow he knows, if Tony made it back alive he’d make Rosie his girl.

He hopes Rebecca finishes school. She was good with numbers like him and Stella trained her from a young age to never back down from a fight. She could really make it in the world… he hopes Elizabeth continues to have a sharp head on her shoulder despite being only eleven, and he wants nothing but the best for his baby brother Kenneth; still too young and innocent to understand how rotten this world really is. He all hopes they’ll be happy… that they’ll all live long, healthy, beautiful lives at home... home he knows he won’t return too. His mother will cry. She’ll cry just like she had at Mrs. Rogers’ funeral as she clutched onto Stella like her own daughter. His father… he’ll understand. He’d been friends with Mr. Rogers before he’d passed and would always tell him and Stella stories of what’d he’d been like during the war. He’d known Stella was like her father… seen it in her stubborn eyes when they’d come back after getting into trouble and grumble under his breath: _just like your old man Joe, Stella Grace._ His father had always known he’d follow her to hell itself ever since he’d come home, bloody and bruised grinning madly with his swollen eye. _One day, Pa. One of these days I’m gonna marry her._

 _Allow Stella the dignity of her choice,_ Peggy had told him.

She had made her choice, and now he’s made his.

Fiddling with the radio he eventually speaks,

“Command? This is Sergeant Barnes, can you read me?”

There’s a bit a fluster, noise of a ruckus and he hears Morita starting to talk before Peggy interrupts him,

“James! Are you alright?!”

“Schmidt’s dead.”

“W-What about the plane?”

He can’t bring himself to speak more, the glaring white letters _New York City_ burned into his head.

“Tougher to explain.”

“Give me your coordinates, I’ll find you a safe landing spot,” she speaks quickly and he shakes his head, hands already gripping the steering.

“There isn’t going to be a safe landing.”

“I’ll get Howard on the line, he’ll know what to do!”

“There isn’t enough time…” he stares out those soft clouds again; their cream white colour the same as her mother’s old wedding dress. “I gotta put her in the water.”

“ _Please_ – don’t do this we have time. We can work it out!”

“Right now I’m in the middle of nowhere and if I don’t do this now a lot of people will die.”

He swallows heavily, hands twitching has he pulls briefly turns around to pick up the singed shield off the floor, placing it beside him before pulling out her old photograph from his pocket: her lovely, smiling face grinning out him with the smudged drawing of their wedding photo behind it. Even though her face and half her dressed are smudged with stained, blotches from his tears… if he looks hard enough… he can make out the ghost of the shy smile she had sketched out before.

“Peggy,” he breathes heavily, staring at the photo of both their faces, so young and _innocent_. “Peggy, this is my choice.”

He can hear her heavy breathing the moment he pushes the steering forward and the plane dips down; beginning its rapid decent as it cuts straight through the clouds.

“You still there Peggy?”

“… _yes, James_.”

“She loved you like a sister, ya’ know? She used to say that when the war would be over, we’d come visit you.”

“I would have loved that.”

“… Can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Tell the truth. If anything, let our family know the truth.”

Peggy’s silent and he continues to speak.

“If you loved her… _if you respect both of us_ I need you to at least do this for h -- _”_

He doesn’t get a chance to finish or hear her response before the plane is seconds away from smashing through the water. He takes the shield into his hand and blocks his face before the ice breaks through and a tsunami of debris and water rush through the glass with explosive force. He’s flung back like a rag doll and his body burns, hurts, _screams_ as water begins to fill his lungs the pain makes him feel more alive than he has in months.

He slips his eyes shut and for the first time in two years… ever since he first shipped out, a single thought resonates down to his core.

He was finally coming home.

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

> _Stevie,_
> 
> _We’re supposed to write these small letters and keep them on us in case we die in battle. I hope you never get to see this letter. I hope that I can survive this war and come back to you. There’s nothing you don’t know, punk and now that you’re here with me I don’t know what to say._
> 
> _Sometimes I really hate what you did to yourself. You were safe in Brooklyn and I’m not saying this to be a jerk or anything, but Stella you have to realize that this place is hell. I know you’re always looking out for the little guy but I never wanted you here._
> 
> _You never listened to me. I hate that to get over here they changed your body, made you into a fucking pinup, and now that you’ve proven you can do anything a man can, you have to protect your identity. I wasn’t kidding when you asked me in that bar if I’d follow Captain America into the jaws of hell. You’re still little Stella Grace Barnes from Brooklyn, Sweetheart, and that isn’t ever going to change. I’m not ever going to let it change. _
> 
> _I know I’ve been sour ever since you saved my ass in Azzano… but Stels, I can’t tell you what I went through there. I haven’t been myself since I left home and I’m not sure I ever will be. But you know what? When I was still loopy and thought you were a hallucination you told me this: Just because I look different, just because I act different, doesn’t mean I am different. I’m still Stella, Buck. I’m still your wife._
> 
> _We’ll I’m still your husband, punk. Don’t ever doubt my vows to you. I’m with you ‘till the end of the line._
> 
> _Always yours with all my love,_
> 
> _Bucky_

 

_…_

 

He’s in a sea of white.

Warm soft, white, _light_ and he thinks that this is it. No more war, darkness, and pain. This is _home_ and somehow they’ve made it. He listens and strains to hear Stella’s gentle humming to the radios jazzy thumping. He tries to move, groaning instead when he tries to say her name.

“Captain Barnes?” a soft voice calls from across the room. The reeling white noise begins to make sense and he realizes that there wasn’t any music playing. It was the stats on the latest ball game.

“Captain Barnes?”

“M’not Captain Barnes. _I’m Sergeant Barnes.”_

Something’s wrong. Terribly, horrible, excruciatingly _wrong._ His left arm feels like its burning and he forces himself to focus on the radio’s buzzing and make sense of what it’s saying.

_“ – But the Dodgers have three men on…. What a game we have today, folks, what a game!”_

No… that can’t be right… It was in May of ’40… he’d _been there_ with a bunch of boys from the docks and their ladies. He’s lurching because this can’t be real… _he had been at the game with Stella. He, Tony, and Joey and a few other guys from the docks had gone to it with their ladies. He’d saved up for months – and hiding money from Stella had never been an easy thing to do._

“Captain?” the voice sounds nervous, and he struggles to force himself awake. His body feels like lead and his left arm is pulsing in pain.

“Who the hell are you people?” he croaks, blinking his eyes open. He’s encompassed by a sea of white sheets, the light of the window illuminating a room that smells sterile and _new_ unlike anything from home. The nurse in front of him is fidgeting with big nervous, doe eyes… there was something wrong. Something that she was holding behind her…

_It could be a gun._

He tries to get up, weakly, and he can barely stand. But something isn’t right. He’s coming to a realization that something is _wrong with his arm_.

He looks down, the sleeve cuffed…

He’s greeted with _nothing._

The pain is unbearable; his vision tunneling and he can hear the sound of his heart ragging out of his chest.

_“Captain Barnes!?!”_

He screams.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start to get a bit confusing. This chapter is very much a passing point between the first and third (despite the moment everyone's been waiting for being in here :P). Anyways, I wanted to focus more on the events of TWS without being too vague on Bucky's life/failure to adjust into the twenty-first century. 
> 
> Please bare with me but TWS scenes will be in present, past/fillers will be in italics, and Bucky's specific "writing" scenes will be in block quotes and italics.

II.

 

…

 

_He sat in his too comfortable chair… too soft, too modern, and too unreal like everything else in this god-forsaken nightmare. Thoughts dribbled out in a slow, lethargic pace. He felt like a fish violently ripped out of the water and thrown into the mud. Moist and familiar yet alien and damaging; caught in limbo between just being alive and at the same time not allowed to die. Everything had melded into a kind of dazing mush of shell-shock. He’s unsure whether or not he’ll ever be able to get up and function beyond a vegetative state. Seventy years…. Seventy years in ice and it had finally done its work. He had finally numbed down to the core and he felt white snow storm up his brain; like winter having taken over him. The storm had come and gone but the damage had been done. What had initially been a few months had turned into years since he’d lost Stevie... He wished he were still dead; left to rot in a frozen tundra of ice, rather than alive in a future where everyone and everything he’d ever loved ceased to exist._

_“Captain Barnes,” Nick Fury – the strange man with the eyepatch spoke to him harshly. He sat across the table from him with his hands folded in front of him. “I’m sorry about that little stunt earlier. Our intentions were to break it to you slowly…”_

_He didn't want to look at him. Instead, he blankly stared down at the cold, seamless, silver of his cybernetic arm. The vibranium shield, as he had been told by the SHIELD doctors, had severed his arm during the force of the plane crash. Stella’s shield – probably punishing him from beyond the grave for everything he had done. The arm, on the other hand, was a modern “prosthetic” that had enough power to snap a neck in seconds. He wondered if all prosthetics looked like this in the future, or if there’s an ulterior motive for why his looked weaponized. It looked like something out of his old, futuristic, comic books from back… back home._

_A home that hadn’t existed for seventy years._

_“I know this is hard on you,” Fury continued and he had let out a sharp, dry laugh in response. He looked at the man with black bagged, swollen, red eyes._

_“That’s one way to describe it,” his hoarse voice had drilled out. “Well, my life can’t possibly get any worse, so why don’t you say whatever the fuck you want, I’ll pretend I care, and you stick me wherever it is the crazies go in the future.”_

_“I’m sorry you see it that way, Captain –”_

_“– and another thing. I’m Sergeant Barnes, not Captain, a’right?”_

_“That’s the thing, Barnes, you aren’t “just a Sergeant” anymore.”_

_He had glowered at the man with a piercing stare that he had hoped would penetrate, although he had a feeling that his foul mood wouldn’t have worked on Fury._

_“There are some things you need to know about the future and I’m not sure you’re going to like it much, so why don’t we just get to it since you’re so eager. One, I’m not sure if you assumed this on your own or not, but you aren’t just a regular human anymore, Barnes.”_

_“Really?” he had spat and lifted the metal arm, having wiggled it at Fury’s face. “I couldn’t have guessed, bein’ half cyborg now, an’ all.”_

_Fury hadn’t looked amused at his sarcastic smile and bared teeth. He had been scared of the words that he knew would leave Fury’s lips. He’d suspected during the War, but nothing proved it more than surviving seventy years in ice with a severed arm. Whatever Zola had done to him hadn’t been regular torture. He had changed him; probably trying to recreate the serum that Stella had. He had known, ever since she had saved him from Azzano, that he wasn’t “just human” anymore._

_“When you were tortured in Azzano, Zola had pumped you full of an experimental serum. We had done some tests on you, Barnes. Standard, at first making sure that all your organs and your brain were functioning normally, but it revealed some alarming details. Enhanced healing, thicker bones, and a weaving muscle mass that doesn’t exist in regular human beings. It was clear that Zola had wanted to replicate what Erskine had with your wife.”_

_His ears had perked up immediately and hope had begun to swell inside his hardened interior. If they were aware of who Stella had been, then the future must have known that --_

_“I’m sorry, but you are known as Captain America, Barnes. However, the highest levels of SHIELD archives are more than aware of exactly who your wife was.”_

_He had felt an electric shockwave radiating out of him and the newly attached prosthetic had begun to squeal from the pressure of his muscles contracting violently._

_“You mean… you mean it’s still –”_

_“-- A secret? I’m sorry to say it is. History has re-constructed your lives; yours, as Captain America, and Mrs. Barnes’ as a nurse who died in Holland during a brutal Nazi assault. The president and SSR Heads at the time felt it was best to keep these records from the public during the wartime effort and they’ve been sealed since.”_

_At that time, he had felt hatred burn deep within him and if he weren’t so in shock, he thought that he would have probably lunged over the table and strangled Fury himself with uncontrollable rage. Peggy had promised him… had promised on his deathbed that she’d at least tell their family and give Stella the credit she deserved. And now? In this fucked up future?_

_“Anything else?” He managed to grit out through vice gripped teeth._

_“We’d like you to be part of the Avengers Initiative, Captain.”_

 

 

…

 

 

_You always hated it when I’d call you sweet names. Said I’d rot your teeth out and we didn’t have money for a dentist. Funny enough, I think you liked it best when the Howlies and I started calling you “Stevie” -- even though you hated wearing the cowl with a burning passion of a thousand suns. You didn’t like being too much of a lady. You always liked to play rough; I’m not ever going to forget the crazed smile that’d rip up your face when you’d win a fight. And after, you’d always dust your skirt or dress off and say: “I’m still a lady, Bucky. Don’t you dare forget it!”_

_It’s only now, in this century, that I realize what role model you could have been. ~~So many girls can do whatever the hell they want now without worrying about it as much. They demand the same respect – good. But I don’t mean to be an asshole, bu~~ t none of them will ever understand what you went through. What you had to prove and what you sacrificed just to do what was right._

_You always were just as proper, pleasant, and capable and femininity had nothing’ to do with how mean your right hook was. ~~I remember how angry you got when some folks around the block started calling you a Kiki.~~ You always protected everyone, but you hated that you couldn’t be yourself without judgment or labels. But when I’d call you “Stevie” It always made you blush fuchsia and smile without flinching. I’d call you Stevie as a comrade, as a fellow soldier who could fight the same way the rest of us could no matter what was in your pants. That’s why I think you liked Stevie the best over Sweetheart, Babydoll, or Stels._

_Because you weren’t just my wife anymore. I made you my equal._

…

 

  
“Target is a mobile satellite launch platform aboard a ship that was captured ninety-three minutes ago.”

Rumlow stares at him specifically after he finishes explaining the mission parameters. He _always_ does, waiting for him to re-evaluate, re-assess, or somehow lead this team like a _Captain._ Rumlow and the STRIKE teams are never left disappointed. He was a Sergeant, he knows how to lead men despite his aversion towards it. But there’s a mechanical method to his every action. In his attempt to cope with the shock of the twenty first century he’s usually silent; keeping his rage controlled until he can release it on missions. He’s adapted from a naïve Brooklyn boy to a super soldier with an icy exterior and limited outward emotion.

“Any demands?” he asks.

“Billion and a half.”

“Why so steep?”

There’s a pause. A small hint of silence among the thrumming _Quinjet_.

“… Because it’s SHIELD’s.” He feels his anger beginning to swell as he sighs out, “so it’s not off course, it’s trespassing.”

“I’m sure they have a good reason,” Natasha rumbles beside him, elbowing him in the side.

“I’m _tired_ of being Fury’s janitor –”

“— _Relax,_ it’s not that complicated.”

He listens to the continued chatter about the mission, the parameters and head targets with loose interest. It’s not until Rumlow turns to look at him and asks, “Any questions, Cap?” that his eyes flicker to his face. He never liked giving orders. He never liked leading men into battle and besides, the mission was simple. Come in quiet, take the pirates out, and save the hostages. Like Natasha had said, it wasn’t that complicated.

More so, he didn’t _like_ being called _Captain._

“It’s “Winter” now, Rumlow, and you wouldn’t want to anger him,” Natasha purrs at his side as she observers the layout map of the ship. “Any officers?”

“All of them are techs, except one – Sitwell.”

His ears perk up and he can’t help but frown. Stella was the strategist and leader, but when it came to _observation_.

“What’s Sitwell doing on this ship?” he murmurs aloud, disliking the way Rumlow licks his lips and stares at the other STRIKE officers before shrugging.

“Don’t know, Ca – _Winter_ ,” he stumbles over his words. “And if everything’s in order then we can gear up.”

He turns towards the door immediately, checking if all his knives and guns were in place alongside the weight of the shield on his back. Despite the black, stealth uniform he wore alongside his black cybernetic arm, he still carried the shield around; forced himself to learn how to fight with it to remain the symbol he was never meant to be.

“You ever consider going out more, Yasha?” Natasha suddenly asks loudly from behind him.

He doesn’t look at her, choosing instead to double check if he had enough extra ammo, although he doubted he’d go through all of it. 

“Go out where?”

“I don’t know, out on a Saturday night? Maybe like… on a date?”

His hands ball into fists as he turns to face her; scrunching his nose at her coy grin. There’s a certain twinkle in the way she moves; head innocently poised upon her hand like a cat in her skin tight uniform and perfectly sculpted hair. He may be friends with Natasha, but the comment still makes him want to spit right at her pretty, grinning face. He forces himself to unclench his metal fist that was already hissing under the pressure of his raw anger. Natasha didn’t know… _no one knew_ just how deep his wound was and he can’t blame her for the jab.

With a grin full of teeth his manages to croon out, “only if it’s with you, _Sweetheart_ ,” which makes her smile in response. They have a comfortable relationship – he and Natasha – with a kind of understanding that goes beyond words. This isn’t their first mission with SHIELD together and he trusts her to watch his six – but _only_ with his six.

He doesn’t care for a parachute, jumping out of the jet the moment the doors open and the light signals green. The force of the wind is almost comforting as his gut anticipates the impact and it’s at times like this that he remembers clearly how _his grip had slipped off the pipe before she dropping herself in a frenzy; using the remainder of her strength to push him from the breaking pipe onto the ledge of the train._ _It should have been him. She should have let him drop and continued to live._ Even with the wind ripping his skin apart he doubts it’ll kill him. He’s proven it over and _over_ again as some sick cosmic joke. When he finally crashes into the crisp, cold, waves he feels his body spasm in memory of the plane crash.

He is Winter now, and it reminds him that he is alive.

 

…

 

He climbs up the ship with surprising ease, landing slickly onto the shadows of the lower deck.  keeping as quiet as possible despite being soaking wet. It’s not exactly slush, and water _can_ be nosier, but it does matter. The roar of the rocking waves would be more than enough cover. He creeps forward, sticking to the shadows and towards the thrumming of heavy boots walking on the deck.  The sound is calm; each thump reaching its mark at _military precision_ – which he thinks is odd for a pirate, but it doesn’t matter.

His mark doesn’t even see him coming until he grabs the man by the back of his throat; slamming him into the ground. The crush of bones and gurgling final screams are washed away by the sound of the ocean rippling beneath his metal fingers. It was loud enough to cause a commotion, but it doesn’t matter. He has the comforting grip of a firearm to assure him that that was going to be _easy_ in the most gruesome of descriptions. He has to take the grunts out before they start squealing in a frenzy that would most definitely leave all their hostages dead.

He has to be quick and efficient – and that’s exactly what his shots are. Loud, but precise – and he can _hear_ the stampede of boots running across the deck. He has about five shots left – five shots for six men. When the first one rounds the corner it rips through the center of his head. The second, the third, the _fourth._ He’s nearing them as he shoots and after the last bullet is used up, he rounds the corner and slams the but the gun into the last grunt’s throat. He falls the ground and gurgles blood from the force of the blow. The waves wash away the pirate’s whimpered cries as he moves forward, pulling out a thin blade and twirling it between his fingers.

More footsteps are nearing… not in a group, but others who must have realized something was amiss. He needed to take care of the remainder of the patrols quickly if the others were to enter the bowels of the ship undetected. He’s quick… but quickness meant _noise._ He covers the mouth of his next target and stabs the man in the heart. When he pulls out he makes sure to severe the main artery in the arm and kicks the victim aside. The next round of patrols scurry around the corner and his blade lands loudly in between the eyes of the first one, and his metal fist in the throat of the next one. He twists downward, knocking the third of his feet while narrowly avoiding a gunshot, before kicking the fourth in the face. He lands swiftly on his feet, grabbing the guard by the throat while the gears in his arm mechanically wheeze at the excursion of snapping bones. He doesn’t dwell to heavily on it, mind clear in the fray of battle that makes it easy to take the pistol from the guard and shooting the one on the ground before he has a chance stand.

He keeps running in hopes that his footsteps will draw the remaining guards away from Natasha and Rumlow. He hides in the shadows as an icy wave crashes against the boat. It’s volatile enough to wash away his corpse trail and drown out his thinking. He doesn’t have _time_ to let emotions trigger him out of the calculated mind set of the Winter Soldier. Before the waves recede, he slithers his way towards two oblivious patrols: brutally elbowing one in the face, and grabbing the other by his neck and throwing him overboard. He rather keep the gun loaded… just in case he needs it.

When he roads the corner and comes face to face with Batroc, he realizes that as usual, his calculations were correct.

 

…

 

“Well this is awkward,” he hears Natasha’s voice ring out from across the room.

He pulls himself off the ground, body still humming with adrenaline as he kicks Batroc’s dead body to the side. He can still hear the pirate’s taunting words licking in his ear as he walks over to Natasha with his usually hardened emotions beginning to explode.

 _I heard they call you “Winter Soldier” now, Captain. But what’s a soldier who hides behind a shield?_  And all he could do was think _maybe the shield is a waste of preserving her. Maybe he is internally hiding behind it, letting her save his stupid, dumb ass just like she had when she had thrown herself off the --_

“What are you doing?” he hisses out, _knowing_ that he wouldn’t like the answer.

“Backing up the hard drive, it’s a good habit to get into,” she responds sarcastically, barley looking at him as she continued to download the ship’s entire file server.

“You were supposed to be with Rumlow, the hell are you doing here?”

She doesn’t respond and he knows something isn’t right. When he looks at the computer screen, reading the names and titles of some of the files dancing across the screen he feels his blood run cold.

“You’re saving SHIELD intel.”

“Whatever I can get my hands on.”

“Our mission is to save hostages.” Something isn’t right but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that he’s been _lied too_ again. Another fucking secret amongst people who he’s supposed to work with and trust.

“ _No_ that’s your mission,” she responds, smiling up at her with those pearly white teeth. “And you’ve done _beautifully_.”

He grabs her shoulders into place, squeezing tightly as if it would somehow hold her in place.

“Are you fucking serious, _Natalia?_ ” he spits out and watches her face become red with anger. “Do you know how many people could have _died?_ ”

“Stop over-reacting, _Captain.”_

At that moment a small grenade crashes through the window and he immediately smacks it away with his shield, watching one of the stray pirates that Natasha _should_ have taken care of run away. He grabs the smaller woman under his arm and they jump in synch onto the table, looking for any kind of protection. She shoots the window to a connecting room and the moment they come in close, the grenade goes off. The blast pushes them as they manage to somehow tumble inside, the computer server and stray paper files burning and hissing under the stress of the explosion.

“Okay,” Natasha pants beside him, face covered in ash. “That one’s on me.”

“ _You’re god damn right,”_ he hissed before pushing himself off the wall, wondering if there was anyone he could actually trust in this cursed century.

 

…

 

 

_He heard about the exhibit… and he’ll admit, he hadn’t exactly believe what Fury had told him. He foolishly kept in faith to his old friends... to those he thought respected both him and Stella; to tell the truth no matter how hard or heart breaking it would be._

_They didn’t._

_He felt himself weaken as he looked around and stared at history re-written. How they disgustingly twisted his and Stella’s entire lives. How they destroyed everything they ever fought for… as if both their deaths meant nothing after all._

_He moves fluidly through the exhibit, horror slowly settling in. The short clips, the photos, and costumes. There’s wasn’t even a mention of Lady Liberty and the once “Steve Rogers” failed to exist – explained as a way to conceal his identity before the Battle of Bastogne – where he received the nickname “Winter Soldier”. _

_The setup, the futuristic devices used to show children how much “bulkier” and how much he “changed” after the serum was something out of a nightmare. It reminded him of his last night and he begins to remember that last night in Brooklyn with painful detail. Before they’d had that explosive argument in the evening, they had gone to the Stark Expo with Rosie and Tony. He had looked at her right before they entered, given her his infamous smirk with gleaming, pearly teeth and whispered: “Sweetheart, I’m going to take you to the future”._

_If only he had known what the future would bring._

_There’s not a word about Stella…. Nothing, except a small section with their old wedding photo; blurred and distorted so that Stella looked taller, broader, as she did after the serum. _

_It read: James Barnes married Stella Rogers on December 6 th, 1939. When Barnes was conscripted after the Japanese’s attack on Pearl Harbour, the new Mrs. Barnes didn’t let her husband go far behind. She joined the Nurse Corps and followed her husband bravely into war torn Europe. _

_Stella Barnes died in November, 1944 when the hospital she was stationed at was bombed by Nazi soldiers in an attempt to discourage the allies. Her loss hit her husband hard, but Captain Barnes continued to fight valiantly in what would later be known as the Battle of Bastogne._

_And that was it._

_The lies…. The amount of effort to propagandize their lives._

_He might as well have stayed frozen in the plane. It would have been better that way. Or maybe, he shouldn’t have gone to war at all._

 

…

 

 

  _My Honey, Sweetheart, Sugar, Baby --_

_Even when we were broker then pennies_

_Your stupid, tenacious, crazy smile_

_Is what kept me going every mile_

_And when I thought my bones_

_Would turn to dust, filled with the musk_

_Of death, of suffering, of bile_

_I’d think of your shinning smile_

_But after every day there is a night_

_You were my ray of light_

_And when you set… and winter fell_

_Everything was bound in your spell_

_Winter is harsh; it freezes and takes_

_It shatters, preserves, and makes_

_Cold. It’s beautiful frost a deathly kiss_

_Leave me, in arctic bliss_

_\-- Because you are my sunshine… and they took my sunshine away_

 

…

 

 

Stomping up the stairs of his apartment building loudly, his mind spun rapidly as he replayed the last couple events of their latest mission in his mind. What was so important on that ship that Fury made Natasha steal? _When it was SHIELD’s ship?_ If there’s one thing he can be sure of, it’s that whatever was on that hard drive must be extremely important if Fury wanted it. Another _secret_ after _another_ and he can’t help but feel irritated at how their last conversation went, when he’d stormed into Fury’s office earlier this day.

_“You just can’t stop lying, can you?!”_

_“I didn’t lie, Agent Romanov had another mission then you.”_

_“Those people could have died!”_

_“I sent the greatest soldier in history to make sure that didn’t happen.”_

_“Soldiers trust each other, that’s makes it an army! Not a bunch of guys shooting guns!”_

_“No offence Barnes, but you never really cared about soldiers or armies, did you?”_

_“How am I s’pposed to trust the guys I’m ightinng with if they’re doin’ shit behind my back?”_

_“It’s called departmentalization – no one spills the secrets because no one knows them all.”_

_“Except you, Fury.”_

He’s so fucking sick of these lies… of how he can’t even live like a normal human being even after he lost _everything._ He thinks back to the _Helicarriers_ that Fury had so graciously “shared” with him. How much enslavement would happen if they actually went up into the air… Everything he’s gone through… what they’re generation, what _Stella_ sacrificed would have all gone to _shit._ The amount of anger he feels over it makes his blood run wild. He _wonders_ if those files Natasha had recovered had anything to do with the amount of satellite reading those flying warships had to contain. He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice he’s passed his neighbor Kate before he hears her call out from behind him,

“Long day at the office, James?”

He turned slowly, forcing out a laugh as he shoved his metal arm even deeper into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I guess you could say that, sorry ‘bout my rudeness.”

“Don’t worry about it, I can relate,” she smiled tiredly in response, waving her laundry at him. “I was working in the infection ward today – talk about having a crazy day. Anyways, have a good night!”

“Yeah, thanks Kate, you too,” he responded politely, about to pull his key out before she called back.

“Oh and James! I think you forgot to turn your radio off today?”

He stopped, forcing his expression to stay the same.

“Really? ‘Could have been, I was in real rush this morning. Thanks anyway.”

“No problem!” she called back. It wasn’t until he was sure she was down a couple flights of stairs that he began to move, expression hard and stance quiet as he made his way down the stairs. He silently crept around the building until he came to his own window. He climbed up and slowly and crawled inside his own apartment.

Loud, melodic jazz filtered through his ears as he tip toed silently, picking up Stella’s shield that hung ornamentally on the wall as his closest weapon. He sticks to the shadows, removing the glove on his metal arm and wiggling the fingers experimentally before quickly peeking around the corner… to see Nick Fury relaxing in his armchair.

His stance immediately loses its heightened rigidness and he can feel his irritation coming back full force; disbelief at how _ridiculous_ Nick Fury really was making him slouch against the wall with a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” he speaks lowly.

“You’d really think I need one?” the eye-patched man responds with a groan as he sits up straight. He’s moving slower than usual… there’s pain in his voice but at the moment he doesn’t _care._

“My wife…” Fury starts slowly. “She kicked me out.”

His arm begins to whir as his muscles re-tighten all over again. To think, that of all the excuses Nick could’ve used he chose _that one._ He manages to speak low, keep his ire out of his tone as he responds, “Didn’t know you were married.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, Nick?” He moves to flick the lights on, coming to a halt at the sight of Fury’s bruised and battered body illuminated. The elusive man lifts his hand up before he can manage to take a single step closer; putting his hand under the light shade to turn the light off himself. He takes his cellphone out, types something quickly, and turns it around so he can read the screen:

\-- EARS EVERYWHERE --

“Sorry that I had to do this, but I had no place else to crash,” he speaks as he types a new message.

\-- SHIELD COMPROMISED --

“Who else knows about your wife?” His eyes are moving around the room in observation, ears perking as he listens for any sudden footsteps, cars, or the clatter of heavy gear moving. Nick groans lowly again as he forces himself to stand, taking a few steps closer, showing the phone screen to him one last time.

\-- YOU AND ME --

“Just… my friends.”

“Is that what we are?” he questions immediately, thinking of a potential escape route, if a sniper could hit them through the angles from his windows, and that if need be, that he could probably carry Fury and jump out the window.

“That’s up to you,” Fury honestly replies, before loud gun shots screech through the walls, ripping three holes through the SHIELD Director’s already weakened body. He quickly ducks down, keeping the shield overhead and grabbing the barley breathing man by the shoulders of his jacket and pulls him out of the line of fire. He’s still breathing, despite the power of the shotgun rifling that’s torn through his body. He’s about to stand up before Nick catches him by his flesh arm, hand sliding down to hold his hand. He feels something being pressed into the palm and when Nick’s arm falls down after it’s used up the remainder of his strength, he can’t believe what he’s staring at. It’s the very drive that Natasha had recovered from the ship.

“Don’t,” Fury begins to cough, breath barely a whisper as his eye begins to roll to the back of his head. “D-don’t trust _anyone.”_

He hears his door kicked down and before he can throw the shield at whoever just forced their way into his apartment, he hears Kate’s voice ring out,

“Captain Barnes?”

He stands up, looking over his shelving to see Kate coming in with a pistol in her hands, poised protectively. “Captain,” she reiterates quickly, eyes widening at his glaring rage. “I’m Agent 13, SHIELD Special Service.”

He only raises his metal arm menacingly at her as she swallows again, rounds the corner and inspects the wall from where the gun shots came from. “I was assigned to protect you,” she passes him without a second thought and his calm control finally loses its lid.

“ _On whose orders!?”_

She finally see’s Nick lying on the ground, whispering out “His…” before she falls to her knees and pulls a radio out of the back pocket from her scrubs.

“Foxtrot is down, he’s unresponsive. I need EMTs!”

“ _Do you have a twenty on the shooter?_ ” a voice buzzes out.

He re-asses the area, _still_ unable to hear any running… any footsteps… any _anything_ that could indicate a group or a single person who was able to shoot down Nick with such a heavy caliber. He quickly glances at the windows again, noticing a small flicker of long blonde hair – observing from the building over before the body begins to run.

He doesn’t have time to think. He doesn’t have any guns on him or within proximity. The closest weapon is Stella’s shield hung ornamentally on the wall. He doesn’t even think when he grabs it, clutching it against his chest protectively.

“Tell them I’m in pursuit,” he yells, running and crashing through the window.

He smashes through the window of the building over, jumping up to his feet and running as fast as the serum will let him. He could see the shooter through the glass roofing above, just before it ends and cuts his line of sight. He continues to run, using the shield as a buffer as he crashes through door after door, jumping over office tables, and bouncing off walls. He sees the shooter land on the roof over through the window. He jumps through another layer of glass, twirling as he lands on the roof. He uses his metal arm and throws the shield with all his strength before the shooter can jump of the ledge.

To his shock, an arm reaches out and catches the shield.

Without even a single _flinch._

Long, blonde hair rages alongside the squealing of the night wind. Blue eyes so bright they were almost _white_ with black kohl smudged aggressively around them stare at him daringly. A black mask covered the remainder of their face. _Of her face._ Despite being covered from head to toe in bulky, leather combat armor that ghoulishly glowed in the moonlight, they were undoubtable _female._ She was tall; thick legs widened in a defensive stance with the shield pointed at him as if it were a gun. It seemed… right. As if the shield belonged to the assassin with the way she griped it as if it were an extension of her body. He doesn’t get a chance to take a step forward. She pulls her arm back and whips the shield towards him with a force that pushes him off balance when he catches it against his stomach.

 _No one can throw that shield as hard as he can._ No one _human_ could and the only reasons he’s remotely cable of throwing it with such enormous power, is because of his metal arm and the bastard serum running through his veins. His body is shaking as his brain begins to seize in question. Who… who the fuck _are they?_

When he looks up, the assassin is gone.

That night, when he uses the shield for the first time in the twenty first century, Nick Fury dies in surgery.

 

 

…

 

 

_It’s only when he had destroyed the sixth punching bag off of its hinges that Natasha finally spoke up:_

_“You know, Barnes, there are better ways to deal with your anger other than slaughtering innocent, punching bags.”_

_He glared in response, picked up another bag from the side of the gym, and with a hum of his metal arm he hung it back into place. Although the other “Avengers” and other SHIELD operatives had this kind of “bond” he hadn’t exactly been too keen to initiate anything. All his real friends were either dying or were dead, and after everything he’s gone through, he wasn’t sure if he could trust like that again._

_He saw Agent Barton hiding behind the fiery red-headed, Russian and chose to ignore them completely. One time, Barton had introduced him to the shooting range. He obliterated all his targets with ease, from every angle, and even managed to beat the archer’s score. When he’d seen the shocked disbelief that littered his features, he knew his aggression wasn’t meant to be shared out in the open._

_Only on missions. He’s cold, precise, and brutal in what he does. He doesn’t ask questions unless need be and he prefers to work alone. But Natasha reminded him too much of Stella. He suspected that the ex-KGB officer may not be entirely human like himself and she possessed a sharp wit the rivaled his own. She never backed down from his sharpened comments and almost encouraged him to get angry._

_Like now._

_“Are you gonna try to get me to talk to a shrink? ‘Cause I just might slaughter one of those too,” he joked dryly and continued to beat the bag again. He may be put on missions and coverts with them often, but they’re not friends._

_“Well maybe, if you’d actually let your pale ass skin see the light of day for once, you might not need to.”_

_He stopped and slowly turned around to look at Natasha. She had only smirked in response_

_“Come on Captain, let’s get you outside.”_

_…_

_It turned out beating Barton’s score had been enough to impress the scare out of him and his covert excellence had only challenged Natasha._

_He wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but he can laugh with them on the rare occasion and loosen his old, tense muscles a smidge._

_He could feel the blocks of trust begin to build again and even though he was scared to open up he had finally done it. They had gone drinking after a successful mission when he felt that maybe he could trust someone in the twenty first century – at least, a little._

_“I’m sorry Cap,” Clint had laughed, clapping him on the back, “but I have to admit, I’m a real big fan.”_

_He tensed and considered retreating but instead, he surprised himself when he spoke:_

_“Then call me the Winter Soldier,” which had caused Clint to go silent and Natasha to watch him with cat like eyes._

_“Captain America was a show monkey name for what St – for what we did. When it was me out in the open, something that I honestly did all on my own, it was Bastogne. That’s where I got the nickname.”_

_“Well,” the archer had started off awkwardly, “If you wanna be called the Winter Soldier then maybe you should call me Clint instead of Barton all the time, okay?”_

_“Yasha,” Natasha had asserted instead. She then stared at him with a sharp grin, eyes glittering and he had raised an eyebrow in response._

_“What?”_

_“The Winter Soldier is not something I can call you in public and James sounds silly. Yakov, is James in Russian.”_

_He had immediately relaxed when he realized what the elusive and manipulative Black Widow had done. It meant that Natasha respected him enough to call him something in her native tongue. When he had asked her about a name in return, she had softly whispered, “Natalia,” having ignored the wide eyes Bar- Clint had thrown at her._

_She had trusted him in return._

 

…

 

 

_~~I remember when we were sixteen and it finally hit me~~ _

_You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen_

_With the filthiest mouth, and the bluest eyes_

_Devil with an angel’s smile_

_~~You ensnared me;~~ _

_No spells needed to possess me_

_I’d follow your sharp teeth  
When you’d flirt with death and make him sheath_

_His sharp scythe_

_“Another day” I’d imagine you call  
Ghosting between the fall_

_Of Heaven and Hell_

_Only you could spit into Satan’s face  
And laugh at God’s saving grace._

_~~It’s when I realized I’ve loved you for a long time~~ _

_~~And I wanted to make you my wife~~ _

_~~Share, with you, the rest of my life~~ _

_-_ _\- If I ever had a religion it’d be you_

 

…

 

 

He comes back to the hospital.

He’s wearing a loose hoodie with the hood up, both his metal and flesh arm hidden in the sleeves as he silently walks down the ER hall. He thinks about Nick’s last words… to trust no one and it only confirmed his earlier anxieties. Natasha’s shock over Fury’s death was genuine. But Hill’s? Pierce’s? _Rumlow’s?_

He’s seen enough death and grieving in his life to know what sadness and sympathy looked like.

After STRIKE’s attempt to neutralize him in SHIELD’s elevator earlier that day he knows he’s a wanted fugitive. Knows he needs to figure out what the _hell_ was on that drive, who killed Fury, and what _Pierce_ was really up to. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it alone, but he’d done enough covert operations with less clues back when the War was still going on. Contacts can be made and he used to be the best damn sniper in the military. He knows how to keep quiet, blend in, and erase his trail.

For now, he just needed to figure out how he was going to decrypt the drive. Could he trust Stark?

He’d think about it later. Right now, what he needed to do was get the drive before someone else found it. He makes his way up to the candy machine he had hidden it in earlier, pulled out a couple of coins before he felt his blood drain.

It was gone.

And behind him, appeared Natasha blowing a large pink bubble of gum.

He turns slowly and feels his control snap at the sight of her raised eyebrow. Without a second of thought, he furiously squeezes her shoulders and pushes her roughly into the room over. It’s only when they’re safely hidden from prying eyes that he slams her against the wall.

“Where is it?”

“Safe.”

“ _Do better._ ”

“Where did _you_ get it?” she demands instead.

“Why would I tell _you_?”

“Fury gave it to you,” she guessed accurately, analyzing his every flinch and movement with wide eyes. “ _Why?”_

“What’s on it?” he asks instead.

“I don’t know.”

“ _Stop lying!”_

“I only act like I know everything, Barnes.”

“Bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t ya’?”

“Makes sense, the ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in, and so did you.”

“ _I’m not gonna ask you again, Natalia.”_

She’s silent, assessing if she can trust him just like he was trying to figure out if he could trust her.

“I know who killed Fury,” she eventually whispered and his grip on her shoulders instantly slacked, the humming of his metal plates calming into total silence.

“Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe she exists and the ones who do call her _The Pale Lady_ ,” she spoke quickly, looking over his shoulder and out the dark office window before she continued in a low tone, “She’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last _fifty_ years.”

“So she’s a ghost story,” he concludes, thinking of the way the assassin’s waist long hair wailed around her body earlier like ghostly fabric hiding her true form… and how quickly she had disappeared. Without a clue, a trace, or even a piece of hair left behind.

“Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran,” Natasha continued to speak. “Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Pale Lady was there. I was covering my engineer so she shot him straight through me. Soviet slug. No rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.”

“Just like Fury,” he responded, thinking of her earlier commentary when the Director had been in surgery.

“Going after her is a dead end, I know, I’ve tried,” she shakes her head. “The only thing I could pull was what the Russian’s called her. Like you said, she’s a ghost story.”

He stops, runs his flesh hand through his short hair, pushing the hood back. Why would what the _Russians_ call her be so important?

“What do they call her?”

“ _Polnocnitsa_.”

“What does that mean?”

“ _Lady Midnight._ It’s a female demon from the Old Slavic mythology. A wraith… the dead spirit of a young woman. The folklore dictates that they were women who were brutally murdered shortly before, during, or after they marry. Or those, who were betrayed by their lover.”

 

 

…

 

 

“You know, I shouldn’t be surprised that you can steal and hotwire a car, but I kind of am.”

“I grew up in Brooklyn during the Great Depression, did ya’ really think I didn’t know how to steal?”

“I don’t know,” she laughs, feet propped up on the dash. “Captain America is supposed to be this shining example of purity and goodness. Guess I always just associated you with the image.”

He glares heatedly at her in response, before she waves her arm at his annoyance.

“Fine, fine. “The Winter Soldier”. Never were a fan of “Captain America”, huh?”

“ _First of all,_ I was never a Captain. I was a Sergeant.”

“ _But that kiss,”_ she changed the topic quickly, evidently trying to keep the atmosphere between them light-hearted despite the disaster of everything crashing around them. “Were you always a ladies man?”

“I used to be,” he admits. “But then I got married.”

He feels Natasha’s eyes drilling into him as they ride in anxiety ridden silence. If it weren’t for the sharp snap of her gum every few moments or so as well as her small talk bringing him back into reality, he thinks he’d eventually go mad with the image of the Polnocnitsa still stuck in his head. The way those blue eyes stared at him with a savage calm as if daring him to make a move against her ghostly form… The way her hair howled in the wind before she had disappeared in a snap of a second. There was something about those eyes that haunted him.

It reminded him of the way Stella used to stare at him when he’d pick her out of fights. Her tiny body heaving when she’d stare at him viciously from under bright blonde bangs with glowing blue eyes; so enraged at him for pulling her out of something she thought she could handle. She had that same look in her eyes when she fell. Even though she hadn’t made a sound… had smiled in response… _the aggressive fury of determination that was in her eyes when she’d thrown herself over the ledge, kicking him up with the remainder of her --_

With another loud snap he turned his attention back to Natasha he observed him with an unnerving calm. He glared at her obnoxious chewing before turning his attention back to the road at ahead.

“You should take a picture, Doll, it’ll last you longer.”

“How come you never talk about her?” she asked within a heartbeat without even blinking, blowing another bright pink bubble before it popped back into place.

He could ignore her completely, divert the question are simply lash out that it was none of her goddamn business, but he knew better with Natasha. She had a kind of burning in her gaze that he’s become all too familiar with since he got to know the deadly Black Widow. She wouldn’t let this go when they were stuck in car for another three hours or so no matter how stubborn he was about the subject.

“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“I’ve only read the history books, _Winter,”_ she sneered. “Just like everyone else, but clearly that wasn’t enough.”

She continued to stare at him as he bite his lip, emotion that he’s been trying to keep bottled within him for months threatening to bubble and spill out over every singly barrier he’s created.

“Tell me about Stella,” she asked in a curious smoothness, honey dripping from her lips with her usual sharp, sarcastic tone uncharacteristically gone.

“Well,” he started with his fingers curling against the leather of the steering wheel. “They lied.”

Natasha stays silent, eyes continuously poised upon him.

“Stella was a small, very sick punk of a girl. But kind of like a chihuahua, ya’ know?”

The words began to spill from him like it was the song of his soul.

“She was five feet tall, full of so much sass and sarcasm she could have exploded. Short as hell, petite frame, but she had the biggest eyes I’d ever seen. Blue like the ocean with this golden hair. She always had it cut short ‘cause it was so thin. She always talked a lot, but she was perceptive. Did you know she was an artist? I ain’t ever see anyone draw somethin’ the way she could.”

“Always had this crazy sense of what was right and what was wrong. She could never stand aside or leave somethin’ alone. She helped everybody because it was right thing to do and that was the only reason she ever needed no matter how stupid or dangerous it really was.  _Shit_ , half the time I wish she’d just turn a blind eye, ignore it, and keep her head down instead of raising hell.  Do you know how many fucking times I found her getting the shit beat out of her in back alley ways for opening her goddamn mouth? Had to pull her out of moralizing arguments before they got messy?”

He didn’t dare look at Natasha, unable to stop the flow once he started.

“She never was a big, bombastic nurse – she wanted to be though, but she was too sickly. She picked up drawing gigs and commissions instead. Worked at a store too, though she lost her job often from bein’ too sick to keep it. You name it, she’d have it from scarlet fever, polio, to pneumonia. I’d almost lost her so many times…” he doesn’t continue.

“The moment the war started, she wanted to help. Wanted to go out into the field as a nurse just like her Ma had been. I thought she was fucking crazy, couldn’t understand why the hell she’d wanna launch herself into that shit hole. She’d applied behind my back so many times and she got rejected just as many times. Too sickly, too small, too weak to help in the front lines. But she couldn’t keep her ass down and the moment I got conscripted…”

He stops. Dead silent as he remembers their arguments shaking the walls of their small home as they screamed at each other raw for the first time in their lives.

“She was the one who got Erskine’s serum.”

He can feel Natasha’s shock radiating as he glances at her widened eyes and frozen frame.

“She couldn’t fucking stay home while I was over fighting the Nazis. She had to make her way to me, and you know what? I got the bastardization of what she got. I never liberated Azzano, I was _tortured there_ \-- experimented on and pumped full of some fucking shit that Zola tried to recreate so I could be like her and the Red Skull. If it wasn’t for her I would have been dead on that table in Azzano.”

“She was Captain America…” Natasha finally spoke, the words coming out as shocked, whispered conclusion to his reminiscent ramblings and he can’t help but let out a dry laugh.

“She was also Lady Liberty but I guess the history books forgot that too. They didn’t think the serum would actually work, so what the fuck where they supposed to do with a lady when they wanted a male super soldier?”

He can feel his anger re-surfacing with emotion just as painful as it was seventy years ago.

“They took my girl… my sweet girl and made her a leggy show monkey. Then when she _refused,_ when she proved her strength and just how much good she could do, they made her pretend to be a man… made her cut her hair and wear that helmet and suit so no one could tell she was a woman. The nursing was just a cover when she was out of uniform and when we were on that mission to capture Zola….she died.”

He can’t look at Natasha anymore; the lines of the road blurring and he can hear her screaming from his dreams all over again. _God he wishes she had screamed at him; screamed as she fell instead of smiling so proud and satisfied before she plummeted out of sight --_

“She fell off the train because of _my_ stupid mistake. She tried to catch me, she saved my _life_ and sacrificed herself – fucking _stupid._ Do you know what the worst part is?”

“It wasn’t that they lied about her death, that they refused to acknowledge her, or that they forced me to pretend to be Captain America so the image would remain. You wanna know what the worst part is?”

“She didn’t scream. When she fell… she just looked at me and _smiled._ She knew she was gonna die but she looked at me and _smiled._ ”

He finally falls silent. It’s only after a few moments when his composure is back in place that he turns to look at Natasha again.

“The rest you know, Doll,” he smiled sarcastically, ignoring the strange look on the ruby-haired, Russian’s face as she avoided eye contact with him. Eventually, she spoke low again, in that same honeyed tone that he imaged she used as a venom before she killed her victims.

“She must have loved you a lot.”

“Yeah,” he sneered in a croaked out voice, sniffing away his frayed emotions. “Too damn much.”

 

 

…

 

 

_Brooklyn isn’t the same any more. The streets don’t just look, but smell different. Everything is so new and beautiful compared to the poverty he’d grown up in. He’s surrounded by people…. Millions of people and he has never felt more alone in his life._

_He walked through the old streets and not a shred of familiarity hit him. At one point, he even got lost and that’s when it hit him... just how much everything had changed. He had initially avoided Brooklyn with the fear that he’d see her in every nook and corner of their old world. Instead, it distressed him. The amount of change. Only Coney Island sparked something close to recognition. If he squinted past the novelty, he thinks that maybe he could see the New York he grew up in… The Brooklyn that used to be his._

_Ever since the ice he hadn’t dreamed anymore and the more missions he completed, the less time he spent trying to figure out this different future where he fit in, and following up on what happened to his family and old friends, the less delusions he has. He almost…missed them. The delusions of her. Maybe then, this future and New Brooklyn wouldn’t feel so empty with her soul filling the missing gaps and spaces in-between._

_Fruits tasted different, a bagel costed an arm and a leg, and coffee was pumped full of so much shit in their new “cafes” with their comfortable seating, electronic toys, and luxurious food. If it hadn’t been for the never ending noise, he thinks he might have been able to hear ghosts from his childhood running and laughing down the street. Instead, he knocked into someone by accident._

_He didn’t even get a chance to say “Sorry man,” before the person looked at him and froze, crying, “Oh my god, you’re Captain America! Oh man sir, is it ever an honor!” And where he was once invisible, he had been shot under a blinding light and magnifying glass; hordes of people having come up to touch him, shake his hand, get an autograph, or suffocate him with a thousand shinning pictures a second._

_He felt chaotic and clumsy, unsure of what to do with himself. The missions through SHIELD… as much as he hated them, it made things easier. It made it easier then confronting his memorial and Stella’s empty grave. It was easier than going to visit Peggy – who was still alive, because he still didn’t know how violent he might react around her. He thought about seeing his family… his siblings that were all grown up and are grandparents now. He didn’t have the guts to look them in the eye without breaking down and shattering back into the earth._

_He wondered, if it would have made a difference if he had died in Azzano?_

_No… because Stella had still come over. Maybe in the train? If he had died and Stella had lived she would have grown to be old. Maybe then everyone would be aware of her sacrifice._

_If she had been frozen and had woken up in the future, she’d know exactly what to do. She always did._

_But him? Honestly, the only option he really sees are to either kill himself or put the name of Captain America to good use – if no one honored Stella’s memory then he would._  

 

 

…

 

 

_We never argued._

_Well, that’s not entirely true. We always discussed, we got angry at each other often, but we never “argued” argued. The both of us were always explosive, but you know, after every eruption there is a calm. After every storm the sun comes out, and every time we’d fight – give it a couple hours and we were good like gold again._

_Until the night before I shipped out._

_I thought that was it. That we were done. That I’d never see you again. We screamed at each other so raw that our little, shitty apartment shook like a hurricane. Our last night at home together… a complete and total disaster. You were so scared… so stubborn and fuck, so was I. I didn’t even wake you up in the morning – thought it’d be better that way._

_And you know what you did? You stupid, stubborn, punk? You ran to me._

_I was with the rest of the army guys, all lined up, all our goodbyes said, and we were entering the ship when I heard you yell my name in your deep, loud yell: James Buchanan!_

_The guys, they never laughed so hard when they saw my little wife; ruffled sleepy hair, no makeup, just some clothes thrown on run and jump right into my arms. I wonder, if you ever thought about how loud they laughed and clapped when you layered a wet one on me. You probably didn’t think about it – too busy kissing the life out of me and fucking up my stupid, military regulation hair. I had to hear about it all the way to Europe and beyond. _

_But I don’t I’ll ever forget what you said to me that day._

_“I’m with you to the end of the line, Bucky. No matter where you are.”_

_Those words…. If I could, I’d have them tattooed all over my body._

 

…

 

 

“This place… this is SHIELD.”

“Where it started,” he supplies, staring at the familiar set up, reminiscent to the offices in Europe. He quickly finds a bookshelf that looks off.

“You know, if you’re already working in a secret office,” he pulls the shelf away revealing a long alleyway. “Why do you need to hide the elevator?” 

They make their way down slowly, the eerie darkness of the room suddenly illuminated by old, sterile light. The dust in the room is thick and it leaves an archaic halo around the old computer systems littering the room.

“This can’t be the data point, this technology is ancient,” she speaks in an echo, before they noticed the small modern USB port. With hesitance she inserts the drive, initiates the system, and the computer comes alive. As the gears and old wires begin to whistle, the computer screen begins to flicker in green and the camera on top moves.

It turns towards him and a voice that makes him crawl back into his nightmares rings out:

“Barnes, James Buchanan, born 1917.”

It then turned towards Natasha, speaking: “Romanov, Natalia Alianovna, born 1984.”

“It’s some kind of recording…”

“I am _not_ a recording, _Fräulein,” the voice spoke again._

_“I may not be the man I was when the Howling Commandoes took me prisoner in 1945, but I am.”_

_“You know this thing?”_

_“Zola,” he hissed out savagely, staring at the photo of the man who still haunted him in his deepest nightmares._ “You’re supposed to be _dead_.”

“Look around you,” the voice rang out in disbelief. “I have never been more _alive.”_

“In 1972 I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body, but my mind however, that was worth saving on 20,000 feet of data banks. You are standing _in my brain_.”

His cold blood freezes in fear and remembers the way the small Swiss man had played voodoo with him like a rat in Azzano. “How did you get here?”

“An old paper clipped operation,” Natasha responds. “Recruited German scientist with strategic value.”

“So I could help their cause…” Zola explained. “But I also helped my own.”

“ _Prove it.”_

“HYDRA was founded on the belief that man could not be trusted with its own freedom. We underestimated men. The war taught us much and that humanity needed to surrender its freedom _willingly._ After the war, SHIELD was founded and I was recruited. The new HYDRA grew as a parasite in SHIELD’s belly. For seventy years HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, creating war, and when history did not cooperate? We changed history.”

“That’s impossible, SHIELD would have stopped you,” Natasha spoke with conviction… and hidden anxiety.

“Accidents… can happen. HYDRA finally created a world so chaotic that man is finally ready to give up its freedom willingly. After the purification is completed, HYDRA’s new world will come to life.”

“And _you,_ Sergeant, my dear _creation_.” He feels feral with fear and rage mixing into a new entity within his blood. “Your death will amount to the same as you and your wife’s life – _a zero sum.”_

He punches the screen with the power of his metal arm; the screen cracking and hissing as his fist comes out clean the other side. It doesn’t make him feel better. His tunneling vision sets his teeth straight in _rage._ When he rips his arm out, more of the screen cracks away with it.

“ _As I was saying_ \--” Zola’s voice rings out again but he interrupts it.

“-- What’s on this drive?”

“Project Insight needs… insight. So I wrote an algorithm.”

“What kind of algorithm? What does it do?” Natasha throws, rising panic in her tone.

“Although the answer to your question is fascinating, you shall be too dead to hear it.”

At the sound of her beeping tone, the Widow pulled her phone out and called over, “Yasha we have a bogey -- 30 seconds tops!”

“ _Who fired it?!”_

Natasha’s face is pale when she looks right him, as if not able to believe the answer herself.

“SHIELD.”

“My creation,” Zola purrs in an electronic whispering. “Unfortunately, I have been stalling. Admit it, it is better this way. You and I are both… out of time.”

Natasha grabs the drive and he makes quick work to lift the panels off the floor. The deadly whistle of the missile can be heard by now and there’s not enough time. He grabs her under his arm, jumps into the whole he created, and lifts the shield above his head. The bomb detonates and he can feel the heat and rubble closing in. His metal arm keeps the shield lifted for as long as it can. He holds on tight to Natasha, trying to keep the weight off of them so they won’t be crushed to death. It’s under the heaviness of the rubble and the exhaustion from the heat that Natasha succumbs to unconsciousness.

When the rumbling stops, he lifts the shield high and stands up. Cement blocks fall away and he tries to make a space large enough for him to crawl out with Natasha in his arms. He can barely breathe, with soot and smoke entering his lungs. He can hear the hornet like whizzing of the _Quinjets_ arriving. Before the lights can filter through the dark of night and the smoke, before his lungs give out from the amount of soot coating them, he runs.

 

 

…

 

_It was rare that he would in a mood like this. Stella had always been the little shit, while he pulled her out of shit. But it was the first time in a long time he felt in a good enough mood to cause some trouble. Maybe if he picked the right person, people would stop bombarding him with the “Captain America” hysteria. _

_He picked up his pace rapidly and when he got close enough to the guy, he passed him for the fourth time that day, having whispered:_

_“On your left.”_

_“COME ON MAN!”_

 …  
  


_He stood to the side during the VA meeting, curiosity intriguing him after all the reading he had done about “shell shock” and “PTSD”.  Back during the war, there hadn't been anything that could remotely help but now... He wasn’t sure what he should expect, but he listened intently as Sam had spoken aloud._

_“Some stuff you bring there, other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it going to be a big suitcase? Or a little matchbox? That’s up to you.”_

_He thought hard about those words… though about all the iceberg sized hatred inside of him, that he let corrupt him into a new being after Stella had died. He thought about what she would do if he had been the one die. What he’d want for her._

_No matter how much his brain protests, he knows that she wouldn’t have wanted this for him no matter how much he refused to be a happy, smiling, person again._

_“Well look who it is,” Sam had smiled after the VA meeting, having walked up to him and immediately broken him out of his melancholic thoughts. “RoboCop. What can I do for you?”_

_“Those meetings,” he started, unsure of what to say. “They’re… intense.”_

_“Yeah brother. We got the same problems,” Sam spoke in a lowered tone, staring off to the side. “Guilt, regret…”_

_“-- You ever lose someone?” he had interrupted instead._

_Sam nodded. “My wingman, Riley. Got his ass knocked right out of the sky and it was like I was there only to watch.”_

_“I’m sorry,” he responded genuinely, thoughts having trailed to all the other soldiers out there who have gone through just as much horror as he has._

_“You know, I had a really hard time finding a reason to stay over there.”_

_“Are you happy now?” he hadn’t been able to keep himself from asking._

_“Well the amount of people giving me orders has gone down to zero? So yeah, I’d say I’m pretty happy now. You thinking of getting out?”_

_He shook his head immediately. “No. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.” He didn’t know what he’d do with so much anger filling his bones._

_“Seriously, you can do whatever you want to do. But first, you have to come to terms with what’s happened. Do you want to talk?” Sam suggest, and he shrugged his shoulders in response. The other veteran had then gone quiet… before he licked his lips and spoke gently._

_“I know you must hear this a lot, but I always looked up to as a kid, Cap. I read about your story. I… I know what happened to your wife over in Holland.”_

_He had instantly flinched, but didn’t say anything. He wanted to correct Sam. Wanted to tell him what had really happened, why this guilt is so deep. Exactly why he was so angry at everyone and everything. Why it’s easier for him to numb himself down then deal with the consequential reality of the twenty first century. But he couldn’t._

_“It's been years for us but I realize its only been months for you. If it’s hard for you to talk to someone, then maybe you should get a hobby to get your emotions out. You do anything?”_

_He finally looked up from his shoes with a raised eyebrow while Sam smiled at him so genuinely instead of glaring with a fear mixed respect. He shrugged and shoved his hands deeper into his leather pockets._

_“You mean other than cleaning guns, lapping your ass in the mornin’ and doing crazy missions? Don’t know, buddy.”_

_Sam laughed, “Alright Running Man, I see your twisted, asshole humour. No but seriously. You paint? Draw? Pet dogs? Make arts and crafts out of beads? Knit? Play an instrument? Anything?”_

_“I guess… I used to write.”_

_“Well then write man. Sometimes the words might just come to you out of nowhere or from deep inside. Try writing your emotions or how you feel about situations. I know, I know, we call that “journaling” now and it sounds kind of silly, but give it a whirl and let me know how you feel after you try it a couple times.”_

_“You really think it’ll help?” he asked vulnerably. He hadn’t even touched a pencil since he got defrosted. Sam only had clapped his shoulder and shrugged in response._

_“Well I guess you’ll never know until you try.”_

 

 

…

 

 

“I can’t ask you to do this Sam.”

He stares at the impressive pictures of Sam’s “wings”; the high-tech military gear they used for Pararescue. The pictures of _Riley._

“You got out for a good reason.”

“ _Dude_ , the Winter Soldier needs my help! There’s no better reason to get back in.”

  
…

 

“HYDRA doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell’s voice began to rise in panic.

“Well, why don’t you try sticking a cork in it,” Sam responded with a bite.

“Insight’s launching in sixteen hours, we’re cutting it a little bit close here,” Natasha reminded from behind and could feel his own nervousness begin to rise.

“I know. We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the _Helicarriers_ directly –”

“What!? _Are you crazy?”_ Sitwell squealed out. “That is a terrible, _terrible,_ idea!”

He wasn’t able to say much more as an arm suddenly slammed through the window, grabbed Sitwell out by the tie, and threw him into an ongoing truck – instantly killing him. What was silent before were now loud footsteps slamming on the roof of the car before a bullet came through were Natasha had been sitting, continuously firing as she reached over and moved his head out of the way before pushing Sam’s head out of the line of fire. He quickly reaches over Sam’s hand and pushes the gear into _P,_ causing the car to come to a sudden halt.

The Polnocnitsa flies off, but she doesn’t fall. A knife hits the road and she’s able to slow herself from the high speed, coming to a complete stop before standing upright. She stood a few meters in front of them, black leathers covering her tall body and from what he could assess, an arsenal of weaponry was hidden in every possible place. Her face was no longer covered by just the mask from earlier, but also with a pair of dark black goggles. Her pale, blonde hair lingered beside her. There was something about her… the melancholy of her appearance that stirred something deep within him.

Natasha didn’t hesitate. She immediately pulled her pistol straight at her, but before she could shoot, they all crashed forward. He only managed to glance back as the _Hummer_ crashed into them yet again, and _again._ The Polnocnitsa twirled onto the roof of the car, latching on quickly before her arm tore through the window and pulled the steering wheel right out of the car. The Black Widow aimed her pistol up and shot through the roof, but he could see that the Polnocnitsa had jumped onto the front of the _Hummer_ as it began to push them forward _again._ They couldn’t risk being smashed by the car, so he pushed the shield against the door, grabbed Sam and Natasha and forced the door off of its hinges.

They crashed onto the asphalt _hard_. He could feel his grip loosen on Sam as he began to tumble away while he and Natasha continued to slide forward. Once they came to a stop he quickly stood in front of her, eyeing the way the Polnocnitsa and the other HYDRA agents were arming themselves. The Polnocnitsa _specifically_ had armed herself with a grenade launcher – aiming it right at him. He only _just_ had enough time to kick Natasha out of the way before he shielded his face; the grenade deflecting against the shield and the force of the explosion launching him into the air.

He made contact; everything going black.

He regains consciousness sluggishly; looking around his surroundings at the sound of people screaming and bullets flying. He’s inside a bus, and the amount of bullets cascading against it must mean there’s a machine gun nest nearby. He forces himself to stand, adrenaline already waking him up and sharpening his surroundings. He pulls the shield up, the moment he comes out of the bus every bullet reflects against it. He keeps his head down, knowing that he isn’t close enough to use his knives and without a gun, there wasn’t much he could do. He _pushes_ against the force of the ricocheting bullets. He twitches the shield to the side for a split second and takes one of the shooting HYDRA thugs out; does it again to take out another. He keeps _pushing,_ coming in close enough to finally take man goon out.

It’s when he looks up that he realizes Sam is shooting the other ones down.

“GO!” he yells down from above. “I got this, James!”

He nods, panicking now that it has gone silent and he can’t see the Polnocnitsa or Natasha. It’s only when he hears a loud shot ring out that he turns, running towards the noise as he sees the Polnocnitsa jump onto a car with her assault rifle poised that he quickens his speed. The moment he comes in close, she turns, slamming her fist down and he pushes the shield up to contrast the blow. He’s still _shocked_ at how powerful she was; the way he was barely able to push her off.

He doesn’t get a chance. The moment he feels he’s able to get the drop on her she pushes his shield to the side and kicks him right in the gut. He’s lucky he doesn’t let the shield go, the moment he’s on the ground he hides behind it before she can shoot him with the assault rifle.

She exhausts the ammo quickly and doesn’t bother to reload the clip. Instead, she throws the gun aside, pulls another from her pocket and continues her assault on him.

He rolls, gets cover behind a car before she puts a bullet threw his skull. He’s wary of the amount of ammunition she’s going through, and the moment she runs out, he vaults over, kicking the gun out of her hands. It doesn’t stop her; she pulls a pistol out of her pocket, shooting well aim shots that he’s able to deflect. He’s able to punch her in the face and like the rest of her weapons, she doesn’t hesitate to drop it.

They began a brutal dance and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep up. He’s good at hand to hand combat, but this woman has _power_ and close combat has never been his forte. They fight brutally with the shield between him and with every twist and punch she’ll grab and _pull_. He’s able to flip her, but it doesn’t slow her down. During her spin she’s able to pull the shield away from him and kick him away. When he looks up she holds the shield tight against her frame, stance poised in a familiarity that shakes him to his core.

He stands, but she throws to shield right at him; embedding it in a car as she runs towards him. He won’t be able to _survive_ with his fists alone. He pulls a sharp blade out of pocket and twirls it between his fingers. When she meets him with her fists, he meets her with the sharpness of a blade.

She’s fast, fluidly spinning around and over him as he countered her every deadly attack with the blade. She dodges all his thrusts with ease. Every stub, thrust, and slash with the blade she’s able to evade and if she’s not matched with his strength, then she’s definitely _better_ where he’d usually be able to overpower a regular human by now. His metal arm is humming from the exertion as he pushes it to its limit, finally feeling that he’s able to overpower some of her harder pushes.

She punches him in the face, kicks him in the stomach, and the blade falls out of his hand. It’s then in his stunt state that she knees him in the solar plexus with a force that leaves him crashing his back into a van behind him.

Before she can punch his skull in a killing blow, he deflects with his arm, being able to get a few good punches in, and this time, when she flips him to the ground, he’s able to grab her neck with the metal arm. Its starts too whir loudly with enhanced strength and he thinks, if he can force the metal to contract more, he’ll be able to knock the Polnocnitsa out… or crush her trachea before she crushes _him._

When he sees her legs beginning to swing up, he knows he won’t be able to keep the upper hand for long. He pushes her away forcefully and it leaves her temporarily off balance. She falls backwards against the hood of the car and when he jumps up onto it, it’s with the intention of smashing her face in. He lands, the raw energy from his metal arm leaving a whole in the asphalt.

She rolled away, and when she runs at him again, he pulls another blade from his back pocket, bringing it down on her, but she catches his wrist. Instead, it nails the truck behind and when he tries to move the blade closer, it only cuts through the metal of the car like butter, failing to hit her.

She’s able to flip him off of her and when he turns around she’s got his shield in hand, and begins to fight with it as a counter to the blade. She… she handles it almost as if it were a _second_ arm; fluidly and with precision as if she’d trained with it her entire _life._ No matter how he counters, even dropping the blade into the other hand as he continues his assault, nothing is deadly or precise enough to slow her down. Instead, she nails him in the face with the shield before forcing it at the back of the metal arm, cracking the plates at the elbow. He doesn’t have feeling there, and despite the immobility that follows, he’s able to kick out his back legs, ripping her off balance.

He grabs her face; feeling the heat from the plastic before he used the remaining strength of his cybernetic arm to throw her off. He could feel the cover suction off her face as he de-masked her; the Polnocnitsa’s body landing a few feet from his own.

When she straightened up slowly, her hair wisped around her wildly; sweaty tendrils spazzing as they blew away from her face. When she looked at him with those crackling blue eyes; small sharp lips, and round nose, he felt himself begin to drown.

His teetering world finally falls off its axis.

 

 

…

 

 

He begins to write; lovely poems about his wife and every detail he can remember about their life. Sometimes he writes letters; “journaling” his emotions in scattered papers and phrases like Sam had suggested.

He tries to just layer down his thoughts… but everything turns into a tribute to Stella.

_They gave me back all my old journals and your sketch books today and I can’t believe they survived the war. Figured someone would have auctioned them or they’d be stuck in the Smithsonian with the rest of my old things. They could have at least given them to our family…_

_~~I can’t look at them without wanting to ride back to Switzerland and jump off the train tracks into the ravine where you died.~~ _

_Somedays I write down as much as I can. I don’t want to forget. I want to remember every single detail I can about you before the serum goes kaput and I become an old, dying man. I got a lot of these “journals” Sam suggested… some for poems, some for memories, and some for thoughts… but fuck it, everything turns back to you. Everything WAS you._

_I wish I had died. Thousands and thousands of times._  
_It shouldn’t have been you… it should have been me_  
_I’m caught in a constant rhapsody_  
_About you… my lovely wife_

He thinks it makes sense now… the Polnocnitsa’s, no, _Stella’s_ haunting over him.

Because even the dead knew it should have been him

…

 

 

“She looked right at me,” he croaked hoarsely, staring down at his trembling fingers. “ _She looked right at me and she didn’t know who I was._ ”

“How’s that even possible, she was a nurse like seventy years ago?!”

“The serum… she had the perfected serum,” he ignored Sam’s shocked expression. “I should have known she’d survive the fall. _They_ must have found her and –”

“-- None of that’s your fault, Yasha,” Natasha whispered weakly, her body slumping as against the wall as her bullet wound continued to bleed out from where the Polnocnitsa had shot her.

_Where Stella had shot her._

For once, the image of Stella falling from the train doesn’t assault his vision. Instead, he can’t get rid of the new image stuck in his mind as it replays over and _over_ again when he’d asked, _“Stella?”_

Only to watch her expression stay the same, her stance becoming aggressive again as she’d raised a pistol to shoot him without a waver in her precision or even a blink.

“ _Who the hell is Stella?”_

 

 

…

 

 

He feels like he shouldn’t be surprised that Fury was alive, as _everything_ in his life was appearing to be nothing more than _lies;_ ass-backwards as the dead began to come back to life. The ghost that’s haunted him finally came back to finish the job he wasn’t able to complete. _Revenge_ for letting her fall, for failing her in this century, destroying everything she stood for no matter how much he tried.

“To think this man turned down a Nobel Peace Prize,” Fury spoke with venom in his voice, holding a photo of Secretary Alexander Pierce in his hands. “He said: “Peace cannot be an achievement, but a responsibility”.”

He threw the photo down before fixing them with a disgust layered glare, staring at all of them as if this was _their_ fault.

“See? It’s stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

Natasha seems star struck; caught in the same limbo of disbelief that he was at the sight of her old friend somehow still alive; somehow not trusting her despite everything they’d gone through.

“We have to stop the launch,” she says feebly, still weakened from the bullet wound in her shoulder.

“I don’t think the council is accepting my calls anymore,” Fury responds, before nodding at Maria who pulls out a large suitcase, opening it to reveal three electronic plates.

“Once the _Helicarriers_ reach three thousand feet, they’ll triangulate with Insight’s satellites becoming fully weaponized,” she explained. “We need breach those carriers to replace their targeting blades with our own.”

“One or two won’t cut it, we need to link all three carriers for this to work. Even if one ship remains operational… a whole lot of people are going to die.”

“We need to assume that everyone aboard those carriers is HYDRA,” Fury continued for her. “Get back there, replace the blades and maybe, just maybe, we can salvage –”

“-- We’re not salvaging anything,” he cuts in angrily, lifting his metal arm right at Nick, despite one of the trusted SHIELD technicians fixing the wire circuiting that Stella had destroyed. “We’re not just taking down the carriers, Nick, we’re taking down SHIELD.”

“SHIELD had nothing to do with this --!”

“-- You gave me this mission. This is how it ends.” He surprises himself with the amount of authority coming out of his tone. “SHIELD’s been compromised, you said it yourself. HYDRA grew right under your fucking noses and no one even _noticed._ ”

“Why do you think we’re meeting in this cave, Barnes?! I noticed.”

His voice drips with acidic venom as his spits out, “how many people were destroyed and corrupted before you _did.”_

“Look,” Nick starts with uncharacteristic softness to his tone. “I didn’t know anything about Stella surviving.”

“Even if you had, would you have told me?” he hisses in remembrance to his first meeting with the ex- Director. “Or would you have departmentalized that too? SHIELD… HYDRA… it all _goes.”_

“He’s right,” Maria cuts in, nodding at Fury while Natasha and Sam look at him, all in silent agreement. Fury observes them all one by one, before sighing loudly. He looks up at him, and for once, he feels he’s finally come to an understanding with the other man.

“Well, looks like you’re giving the orders now, Sergeant.”

 

 

…

 

 

“She’s going to be there, you know?” Sam asks in a soft tone from behind him.

“I know,” he responds slowly, staring out at the river, thinking of just how strong it was during winter… He wonders, whether Stella fell beside it, watching everything wash away while she slowly froze, or whether she fell into the current. Freezing from the inside out; drowning in sorrow just as he had.

“Whoever she used to be… that person she is now… I don’t think she’s the kind you save. She’s the kind you stop.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he honestly reveals, thinking of those hardened eyes… hard and frozen yet there had been a second before Natasha had shot the grenade at her. A second where something had come to _life._

“She might not give you a choice. She doesn’t know you.”

“She will.”

 

 

…

 

_The “Avengers” reminded him of the Howling Commandos… the carefree silliness despite the seriousness of the situation and the mission… but nothing could replace those bonds. Even now, after as ridiculously as it sounded, they just fought fucking aliens. Now, instead of completing mission reports they had decided to eat this thing called “shawarma” with Howard’s obnoxious son, an ex-KGB assassin, a man who fought with a bow and arrow in the age of guns, another scientist with another bastard version of Stella’s serum (except he turns into a large, green rage monster when he’s pissed), and a fucking Norse god. _

_Ever since he’d woken up it had felt like some sick kind of dream. Situations like the one they just went through didn’t make him feel more attuned with reality. They all ate in silence at the bombed out restaurant and the hilarity of ironic parallelism hadn’t escaped him. How many times had they done this with the Howlies? Finding bombed out bars with enough booze for them to still get drunk while Stella watched like their Ma?_

_“You know, Cap,” Stark Junior had suddenly broken the silence, wiping some stray sauce off his beard with the Iron Man arm before he spoke again. “Other than the weird fact that you don’t fight with your shield anymore, gotta say I never expected a patriot to fight so brutally. Seriously, your arm is obliterated. That prosthetic SHIELD gave you is a piece of shit. I can build you a better one.”_

_“Really?” he had questioned with a raised eyebrow, before he settled his alien-blood crusted shoes up on the table as he finished off the last couple bits of the shawarma. “How much is it gonna cost me? ‘Cause everythin’ in the future seems to be priced a lot higher than it used to.” He hadn’t meant money._

_“No charge, no charge, just pure engineering delight,” Stark Junior waved. “My dad never shut up about you. Figured I could do something for his good friend.”_

_He glared at him in response. “Oh come on, seriously? You seriously don’t trust me, Capsicle?”_

_“Your father and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye,” he responded dryly and thought back to how much his relationship with all of them had deteriorated after Stella’s death._

_“All the more reason. Seriously. I’ll build you a new arm that can explode stuff ten times faster and definitely won’t fall apart like yours almost did today, ‘kay?”_

_He shrugged in response and fell silent again as the conversation suddenly picked up. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the future._

_…_

_“Okay, a couple more touch ups aaaand… Done! Go ahead, give it a go, tell me if anything zaps you or hurts, and then tell me I’m the greatest engineer ever,” Tony blabbered when he finished up installing the brand new prosthetic._

_He wiggled the new black, matte fingers experimentally before he created a fist. The plates still made noise just as the other arm had, although at a much more muted volume._

_“Yeah, not much I can do for making the arm being quiet. The gears have to work somehow. Oh and don’t defrost for a second Cap, I have to run and get something for you.”_

_He continued to move the new arm, skeptical of the way it moved. It had seemed too good to be true that Stark would do something for free in this century. There had to be an ulterior motive, a hidden price, or some kind of black mail that came with a gift like this. He expected that it would blow up during a mission and get him and cause trouble just for Tony’s amusement._

_He had been so absorbed in testing the new metal arm that he hadn’t noticed Stark come back into the room before he dropped something on the table next to him._

_Instinctively he looked over…. And felt his eyes begin to bleed with tears._

_His ring. His wedding ring._

_“I don’t know why Fury didn’t give this to you earlier, I mean, the fleshy arm isn’t yours anymore and I doubt you’d want it, but the ring is. I found it when I asked to look at your old arm to get the specs for it. I know, I know, gross but creating perfection isn’t easy.”_

_He stared at the simple, gold band long and hard. He thought of how much he has mourned and killed himself over her death._

_“I-I,” he began as the tears leaked down his face, emotion he had kept masked since his revival swimming through his frozen walls. “I c-can’t – Thank you. Tony, really. The arm, the ring –”_

_“Jesus, don’t get all emotional on me. It’s what friends do, right Cap? So, ugh. Damn this is awkward. But uh… are you going to stay with the Avengers now?”_

_He knew there would be a price he wouldn’t like. But as he stared at the ring, remembered their vows, he knew he couldn’t live this way. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew that he had changed and that loss had carved his heart away, but if his return to Brooklyn hadn’t been enough than this was._

_He would fight with the shield. He would be Captain America if it meant that everything Stella had stood for would stay young and alive._

…

 

 

The moment they come face to face, he feels his entire composure shatters. The iceberg that’s been melting since he first found out she was alive has reached a tipping point and the flood begins to pour right out of him.

“Stels,” he whispers gently, knowing that she’d hear it anyways. “A lot of people are gonna die. I can’t let that happen… _You_ would never let that happen.”

She remains silent, eye drilling into him as her hair blows into a ghostly halo around her.

“ _Please don’t make me do this_ ,” his voice cracks and it doesn’t even register a flinch from her.

He throws the shield at her and she deflects it with the tough, leather padding on her arm. Immediately, she begins to shoot at him and it doesn’t matter that with the metal arm stopping the bullets he’s able to punch her face back. He’s not fighting for his life anymore, not fighting to kill anymore. He’s fighting to _save_ her and she knows it. She’s just as vicious as she was when they were younger; feral with a precise brutality that beats him into submission. He tries to take a defensive stance, managing to open the lock where the plates are being kept while keeping her at bay. But he’s never been good with the shield as a main weapon. It easy for her to rip it away and tackle him off the main platform.

She fights ferociously and he comes to the realization that the targeting blade he’s so desperately clinging onto is only a secondary thought. Her objective is killing him. He can’t hurt her. He’s can’t be as brutal with her and even though he’s able to deflect her bullets, he isn’t able to catch everything when she surprises him with a knife; stabbing him deeply in the shoulder. She’ll kill him without even knowing who he is. She’ll kill him and he won’t be able to stop the carrier… everything she ever stood for, what he stood for beside her, would be destroyed.

He grabs her long tendrils of hair and squeezes his eyes as he mercilessly pulls the strands _back._ She howls, but manages to wrestle the card out of his hands. It’s then that he needs to get the upper hand and is able to get her arm in position. She won’t let go… if he had another choice he’d do it. He doesn’t _want_ to do this and when he dislocates her shoulder, her scream shatters something inside of him. He forces himself behind her, holding her against him as he keeps her in a choke hold with the cybernetic arm. He’s wary to cut off her oxygen supply without choking her and when her thrashing body finally becomes limp, the card falls from her hand.

It’s with panting regret that he drops her, picks the card up and with the remainder of her strength begins to climb up to platforms of the _Helicarrier_. He’s definitely weakened and he knows the serum mixed with adrenaline will get her back up and running within a few minutes. He’s almost at the top when a single, deafening shot rings out and rips right through his stomach.

He can’t stop yet. He _can’t_ and if there’s anything left inside of her, he can’t let her be a reason as to why HYDRA succeeds in enslaving the world. Another shot rings out and the force of it almost makes him let go.

He tries to tell himself he’s survived worse than this during the War, with mud filled trenches. He’s able to finally get himself onto the main platform, and he breathes again. Being tortured by Zola was worse than this pain… he can _handle_ physical pain with the serum. Just as he slides the last targeting blade it, a final shot rings out, shredding right through his gut again.

“Ch-Charlie Lock,” he manages to choke into his comm.

“Okay, Winter, get out of there!”

He’s done. He’s done everything in power to live a life that Stella would approve of, a way to preserve her memory and everything she’s ever stood for. With both HYDRA and SHIELD finally obliterated, he’s finally completed his mission.

“Fire now.”

“But James --!”

“DO it! Do it now!”

Eruptions explode around them as the _Helicarrier_ begins to shatter. The banging is enough to deafen him with his enhanced hearing, but it’s still sharp enough to hear Stella shriek. He forces himself to move and looks over the barrier that’s still intact. She’s trapped under a beam, and with her dislocated arm, she won’t be able to free herself. The serum’s already healing the gut wounds. If he can just get to _her._ He jumps down, gets as close to her as she can and she looks at him almost fearfully, unable to get away. He lifts the beam, the cybernetic arm doing the majority of the lifting is it whistles and screeches with overuse. She only stares at him in a type of newly formed anger, scurrying out like a wild animal.

“ _You know me,_ ” he hisses as she takes a shaking step forward and smacks him away with her other arm.

“ _No I don’t!_ ”

“Stella,” he exhales painfully, clutching onto the bullet wounds she created earlier. “Stevie, you’ve known me your whole life.”

She hits him again and he doesn’t make a move to stop her, only taking a step back at the force of the blow. He can _see_ her ghostly, pale mask beginning to break with colors of emotion.

“Your name,” he asserts, “is Stella Grace Barnes,”

“ _Shut up!”_

“I’m not gonna fight you,” he looks right at her, dropping the shield as it breaks through the glass and falls with the rubble. “You’re my family.”

She tackles him, beats him down, and slams him against the crunching glass.

“You’re my _mission_ ,” she sneers instead, punching him ruthlessly. He can feel his bones cracking under her fist and when she finally stops, she stares at him in a shock mixed horror; as if in disbelief that he won’t make a move against her.

“If this is the end of the line,” he chokes out, hand moving up to her, “Just one last time –”

She flinches at his shaking hand and when it reaches her cheek, the Polnocnitsa freezes.

“One last time, Sweetheart,” he smiles gently, grimly, _lovingly_ because he can see the life seeping back into her. When her eyes widen in shock and the color of her cheeks slowly turn pink, he strokes his bloody thumb against the smooth, familiar skin.

“ _T-there’s… there’s_ my Stella.”

When another piece of rubble falls from the upper levels of the carriers and hits him, he begins to fall while she uses her good arm to catch herself on one of the beams. He stares up at her shrinking form and he knows that this is how it should have been the entire time.

For the first time since they’d both died on the train in Switzerland, everything feels _right._

 

_…_

 

 

_I feel like the moment I’ll see you again, my heart will jump out of its cage screaming:_

_"Love, it’s you! I’ve found you!!” and you’ll put a bullet right through it._

_I won’t mind. If anyone deserves to do it – it’s you. You’d be doing a service. Nothing more than putting down an old, cold, dog that should have been dead long ago._

_But you know, I won’t stop. The dead always haunt and like you’ve haunted me, now I have no choice but to return the favor. I won’t let you kill me until I’ve brought you back to life._

_If someone were to ask me, “What is family?” the answer will be easy. It’s you. And family doesn’t give up on family, Stella. I love you, to the end of the line, no matter where you are._

_That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered._

 


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as of April 27, 2018 I think mostly everything has been rervised and corrected. If you see any glaring errors please let me know! 
> 
> This wonderful image was drawn by iceburd!! Check them out on tumblr @https://iceburd.tumblr.com/
> 
> quick historic note: the "lucky strike" in Lucky Strikes when they were first produced during WWII was that one of the cigarettes contained weed.

III.

 

 

…

 

“ _Captain Barnes, Captain Barnes!”_

A mass of voices scream at him simultaneously along with slews and spews of mangled words, sentences, and questions. He barely understood what anyone was saying and he felt himself freeze at the sensory overload. His ears were ringing, his head and heart pounding, and his eyes blurring from the million hyper bright flashes snapping at every millisecond.

“ _Captain Barnes, Captain Barnes!”_

His military monkey suit feels too tight; wrong with the slew of meaningless medals and ranks stapled in. He tries to keep his composure intact despite the creeping sneer of anxiety crawling up his spine. Back on the table… with _Zola_ he’d felt the same way. Confused and disorientated with all of his senses assaulted at once. Like some lab rat un-seamed and ready to be poked, prodded, and dissected -- _with needles digging into his skin and howling laughter echoing in his brain even when Zola had long gone._

“ _Captain Barnes! Are the documents released by Agent Romanov true?”_

How the hell did Natasha _do this?_

He swallows deeply, looking above the heads of the mass crowd of reporters ready to devour him alive.

“They are,” he eventually answers and the crowd goes wild again.

_“Captain Barnes! CAPTAIN BARNES!”_

His patience and sense of reality was wearing thin.

“Agent Romanov,” he interrupted, ignoring the continuous squawking of the reporters, “Released all of SHIELDS documents. Everything heavily classified and hidden for years. This included the early pre-SHIELD SSR files as well as the hidden HYDRA fi --”

“ _Captain Barnes! Was your wife the true Captain America? Why was this kept from the public? Captain Barnes!”_

He feels his blood run cold as Winter settles deep in his veins again. He doesn’t have enough _patience_ to care about these reporters anymore. And he was done hiding the truth. It’s eaten him half alive… and now that _Stella_ was still --

“The SSR at the time,” he hissed through the microphone with spit and fire, “felt that the world wouldn’t be ready to accept a _female super soldier._ My wife -- _Stella Grace Barnes --_ was forced to play the gag of Lady Liberty and Captain America in an effort t-- ”

_“Captain Barnes, your wife was also Lady Liberty? Lady Liberty and Captain America were the same person?! How did you come into play?”_

“ _Yes,_ my wife was both Lady Liberty _and_ Captain America. It was too seal her identity. When she had still been alive at the time, they had originally had her pretend to be a male under the pseudonym Steven Grant Rogers as well a--”

_“Captain Barnes why were there so many covers? Wasn’t she also a nurse in Holland or was this also a cover? Captain Barnes!!”_

_“Goddammit NO._ Are you people even listenin’ to what I’m _saying?!_ The SSR forced multiple covers on my wife in an effort to maximize discrepancy about her identi--”

_“Captain Barnes, did your wife truly die in Holland? Captain Barnes documents released dictate she died in Switzerland! Captain Barnes had the SSR been aware that she had survived? Captain Barnes, what is the truth!?_

_“Captain Barnes, Captain Barnes!! Who is the Pale Lady in the released SHIELD documents?”_

Everything melds into one sense -- _freeze_ before he explodes.

“I’m done here,” he speaks quickly, turning around and walking away from the podium as the crowd goes wild in frenzy. He can’t release the truth under these conditions… not when these people are attacking him for information like hyenas. For the first time since the war started, he’s not going to fucking listen to what anyone says anymore. He has to, _and will,_ do this his way.

He has to find Stella.

 

 

…

 

 

He pulls out a one of his many small blades out from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers once before wiping in against the HYDRA agent who rounded the corner. The blow is quick and precise; ripping through the man’s throat like warm butter as a slew of blood spits out at him. He doesn’t slow down. Another comes up from behind, but he’s already anticipated the movement and he counters with the brutality of the cybernetic arm. He smashes their skull with a single blow, pulling out a pistol and cleanly fires bullets into the three that round the corner before they can even pull the trigger.

Honestly, he’s shocked that this base is so damn, fucking _full._

They’ve been tracing Stella’s misty whispers for months now. He’s a damn good tracker and with Natasha, they’re a lethally effective team, but they’ve only been able to catch wisps of Stella’s trail. She’s stupidly elusive, for someone who’s never had much strength are care for stealth. In fact, it pisses him off even more, because half the time he can tell by the scarring of a base that she’s gone in guns blazing without methodologically planning out an attack. But beyond that -- the trails evaporate.

More so, when she does leave them clues, it's to _her benefit._ Clues that she _chooses_ to leave behind to places she _wants_ them to see from potential safe houses to HYDRA hubs she’s destroyed and dealt with. Sometimes, she leaves the operatives dead, but everything is left perfectly in tact. Other times, all they find is ash. But the common factor amongst only of them is that they’re left _abandoned._ Except today, in this particular facility. If one thing was clear, it was that she’s more than well aware that they’re following her and the sad part is, he’s annoyed that it’s only by her will that they know where she is going… but he’s also overjoyed. Within some of her more prominent and well established safe houses, she gives the appearance of a crazed person.

There are maps, news clippings, and messy _sketches_ of HYDRA operatives, bases, and connections. They’re all caught in a web of red string with black sharpie scribbles littering the walls in circling’s; rough memories of those who once held power above her, as she plots out her next move. But despite the insane hand written ramblings, _she’s drawing again._ Messy, lacking finesse, but _sketches_ with sharp, important details and always the next location. Never in words, but in pictures right out of her mind.

Yet, despite them following a quiet and well-hidden trail, she’s left this building _full._

_Why._

They’ve made it to the squirming heart of this facility and everyone was _still alive._ Did she want them to clean this out for them? Was she testing their abilities?

“ _Yasha,_ ” Natasha calls from the entrance to the main command room, her voice controlled and tight. He stares at the dead bodies around them, his own anger evident in the way the corpses stained the hallway read. Sam looks at him and back at Natasha, eyes wide and his breath short from exertion.

“You’ll want to see this.”

“Natasha, are you _sure_ he should?” Sam mumbles in a frightened whisper, but he hears it anyways.

He knows the Falcon is only doing it for his own emotional protection. The days following his recovery after Stella had pulled him out of the Potomac had been… rough. Rougher than usual that is. Despite his mangled body, he’d finally had time to sit and process everything that had happened in the past year, from learning how to live _without her_ to realizing she’s been _alive all this time._ Tortured and corrupted in HYDRA’s perfect Pale Lady. Unfortunately, the world had discovered it too. And they demanded answers. “The truth”. But his priorities were different now and he needs to find her. He knows Sam is trying to further protect his damaged psyche, but he’s lived through this shock far too many times.

He’s analyzed every fucking _inch_ of the file Natasha had recovered from Kiev. He’d analyzed it for months, alongside the newly released HYDRA files leaked thanks to Natasha. He even learned _Russian_ just so he could read and better understand what really happened to Stella after she fell… He… he _knows_ how they tried to create her, the code words, _the memory wipes_ , and every single recorded mission and kill. He’ll never forgive himself for what he did to her because of his _stupid fucking mistake._ But now he has a chance to make it _right._

He pushes past them without a word… and finally witnesses Stella’s supernatural presence seeped into the wall. Rotting human flesh assaults his heightened senses. She’d slaughtered these operatives a long time ago…. All the equipment was destroyed and he recognizes the _chair_ that he’d learned were designed for her memory wipes. The snapped electronics still crackled as he slowly made his way through the room, avoiding the sticky crimson liquid aged into the floor. There’s a security panel still hooked up: old footage from the facility still recorded. There’s a video on the largest screen playing in a loop… when he’s close enough he feels yet another part of himself die.

She’s in the chair. Sitting upright, blank and spooked with her hair wet and frazzled around her face. She’s in nothing but a sports bra and the military, tight pants she had been in from when they’d fought her on the highway. _Pierce,_ that piece of shit, walks up to her.

 _“Mission report,”_ he asks her, but she doesn’t respond. She stays frozen with her eyes _gone._ He asks again… and impatient for her response he… _he slaps her_ right across the face so hard that her entire body moves with the furious blow. If Pierce wasn’t already _dead,_ he would have gutted that fucker like a fish himself. The video doesn’t get better.

“ _The man on the bridge,”_ her voice rings out all of a sudden in that familiar honeyed rasp and he feels his heart clench. _“Who was he?”_

_“I knew him.”_

She had recognized him… _she had known him._

The old feed becomes worse. He anticipated this. He knew she was inconceivably tortured for years, but… but to _see it_ with his own eyes made him want to scream until his lungs burst. Slit his own throat for _not going back when she’d kicked him up with the remainder of her strength, falling into oblivion with that smile on her face. He should have dropped down again and caught her instead of evaporating with the squealing wind. He should have looked for her b --_

A rubber guard is placed between her teeth. The machine begins to move with sick twists as it binds her to the table. The metal rods lower down and when the electricity flickers like a bombardment of lightning, her screaming engulfs the audio.

He goes blank, horror piercing him like icicles before his metal arm screeches with tightened coils before embedding itself into the screen, shattering the screen and the video with it. It’s when his breathing goes into anxiety; mind nothing but white noise with panic flooding from his body that Natasha and Sam’s worried yells drown out from the crashing wave of shock freezing him in place. Its then… in this cytostatic state that he comes to realize there is a message written in _blood_ behind the screen.

 

THIS IS W H A T THEY  DI  D  T O  M E

 

 

…

 

 

 

> _Before the serum, Stella was frail, sickly, and we didn’t have the money to be “frail and sickly”. You name it, she had it from polio, to scarlet fever, to yearly pneumonia. During the Depression no one had money, but I feel like we had a little bit less than everyone else. I worked double shifts down by the docks (when I could) and helped my old man in his mechanic shop whenever I had some spare time. It was a little worse for Stella. She jumped from job to job, not because she wanted to, but because she was so sick all the time. Who the hell wanted to give their employee multiple leaves during the winter season? Not anyone in Brooklyn, that’s for sure._
> 
>  
> 
> _The thing is though, she could never stay down. No matter how small, how sickly, or how womanly she was, she had a talent for getting into fights. Stella was no belle and she never would be. Punk always had to stick her nose where it didn’t belong. Once, some drunk guys were kicking a dog in a back alley. Most people would have turned a blind eye to it, since there were so many strays back then. But Stella? Stella was the type of gal that couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d call them out and sometimes, she’d try to fight these drunk assholes who were twice her size. Losing was never an option, you know what that crazy girl would say when she was broken and bleeding on the ground?_
> 
>  
> 
> _“I can do this all day, fellas.”_

 

 

_..._

 

 

They’ve followed her bread crumb trail from the states, through Europe, and now into Belarus. The just finished analyzing another cleaned out base in Poland, and judging by her direction, she was going to move further into barren and overgrown, ex-Soviet territories. Natasha had earlier theorized that she was probably moving into the Siberian wastelands where many of the Red Room testing facilities lay in decay and ruin. More so, it was the most likely place where HYDRA facilities were still intact before the world governments deciphered the leaked documents and chose to make a stand.

They huddle in the small inn room, careful to bring out electronics or anything that would seem out of the usual for prying and curious ears. Sam is fast asleep and Natasha is nearly there, drinking her evening chai and monitoring him. She’s been careful around him, tip toeing on his emotions and hyper-sensitive of his explosive rage ever since they began ghost hunting. She’ll keep him company for another hour, before forcing him to get in at least a couple hours of sleep. It’s on nights like this, when they sit in silence in old, worn, clothes that he pulls out his notebooks. He’s been reading Old Slavic legends; analyzing the mythology from every angle to understand how they created her from Russian, to Polish, to Bulgarian -- everything was included.  


_Polnocnitsa --_ his withered hand writing read -- _means “Lady Midnight” or “Midnight wraith”. Originating from the Polish variation of Slavic mythology, called “Północnica”, the Polnocnitsa is the midnight version of “Poludnica” or “Lady Midday”/”Noon Wraith”. I can’t find stable information on Polnocnitsas in Russian or any other Slavic language, but Natasha’s translated some of the Polish texts we found. They’re said to be a type of “rusałka” (kind of water spirit/mermaid/siren for the Slavs)._

_Either way, like the Poludnicas, they’re considered spirits of malice and madness. Apparently, they caused “heatstrokes” and often appeared in the fields that killed the elder and stole children. Some stories suggest that they suffocated their victims in their sleep, other stories say that they gave people who came across them in the fields a riddle, that if answered incorrectly, lead to their deaths. Another variation Natasha translated for me was that amongst some Slavic groups, they were seen to torment and torture their victims before eventually killing them. -- However this is for the Poludnicas._

_Polnocnitsas are mostly described as being the midnight or “sister” version of the Poludnica, but the killing method is not described. Mostly, Poludnica is a seasonal demon; probably the pagan way to describe heat exhaustion and sunstroke. Since Polnocnitsas manifest during the night, they are “dissipated from time” the Bulgars describe them as a ghost that stands at crossroads and leads others astray._

_They were malevolent spirits of dead women who died shortly before, during, or after their weddings. Or those, who were betrayed by their lovers. They appear as either young or old women wrapped in white cloth with loose, disheveled hair. When appearing as the elder woman, they can look akin to the crone like “Baba Yaga” -- an evil kind of Mother Nature -- or “the Widow Goddess” who made pacts with the devil in order to obtain eternal life. They hunt alone, and when they find their victims, they are more prone to playing with them and torturing them -- I’ve found the phrase “making them dance” -- before killing them._

 

From the legends and mythology, it makes perfect sense as to why they’d call her the “ _Polnocnitsa_ ” and yet, staring and reading at his notes, a single word jumps out at him. _Widow._

“Hey Natasha,” he breaks the deafening silence, closing the book and setting it aside. “Why did they choose _Polnocnitsa_?”

The redhead -- turned _brunette_ now -- sets her cup of tea down and shrugged her shoulders. “Because it fit? Because the Russians created her and wanted a monster mythos for their assassin?”

“ _How did you know her,”_ he fires off right away, finally getting the question that’s been dying to ask her off his chest. Natasha doesn’t take kindly to it, staring at him challengingly and trying to distinguish whether his intentions were malicious or not.

“I didn’t know the _Polnocnitsa_ was Stella Barnes, if that’s what you’re demanding of me Yasha. _No one knew.”_

He raises an eyebrow at her stiff form, and loosens his glare. He’s been harsh around them lately. Anxious and adamant about this hunt across Europe. He doesn’t mean to come off as aggressive, for once, and Natasha slowly picks him apart. It takes a moment for her to relax, but when she finally does, she begins to speak in barely a whisper -- only loud enough for his enhanced hearing to catch.

“She… she trained me in the Red Room. The highest level of assassin; a true ghost and master of close combat who could seduce, torture, and murder efficiently. A ghostly widow… the ultimate _Black Widow._ Brutal, efficient, and dead on the inside; mourning a love like we all had. When she was in the Red Room they didn’t wipe her as much and the Russians treated her with more respect. We called her _Polunocnica_ but her officers called her _Svetlana_ \-- “light”. I used to always think that it was ironic for a midnight demoness, but now?” she laughed lowly, avoiding eye contact with him.

“It all makes sense. “Stella” means “star”. They knew exactly who their assassin was and where she had come from.”

 

He doesn’t sleep well that night and the nightmares come back. He dreams of supernaturally blue eyes, vibrant and swirling. She’s moaning and wailing in pain; his senses then overflowing with the touch of skin as cold as ice and the vision of a ghost with pale white hair. With a fog of sweeping cloth covering her ethereal form her realizes the ghost is Stella.

 _“You did this to me,”_ she screeches, floating closer in deadly steps, her body poised and ready for combat. The cloth, to his panicking realization, is a ripped form of her wedding dress. The scent of decaying blood assaults him and she points a knife dripping in crimson right at him.

_“You killed me. You didn’t save me. You did this to me. You betrayed me.”_

 

 

_…_

 

 

 

He’s been chain smoking ever since he woke up, having brought an old, withered pack of Lucky Strikes with him from the States. He’d initially bought it after defrosting, but after he’d smoked one and realized how horribly different the taste was, he’d thrown them into a stray drawer in his small apartment. He’d been especially disappointed when he found out online that the “lucky strike” within the Lucky Strikes wasn’t actually a _thing_ anymore, but now, when his mind was buzzing and he’s reached his limit on file reading, it was a comforting.

Something to do with his hands, something that reminded him of old times… _his times_ when he’d smoked more than a chimney and used them to count how much time has passed before the next assault. He was using it for the same purpose now -- a way to count how much time has passed before the calculate Stella’s next move. It was a familiar hobby… something he could actually relate to in the alien future he was still getting used to.

With every deep inhale he focused on the soft tapping of Natasha typing on the small laptop she’d brought with them. It’s then that he held the smoke in his lungs and forced it to burn while zeroing in a Sam’s gentle breathing. It’s only when he’s lungs would scream for air that he’d exhale the smoldering smoke through his nostrils and repeat the action. It reminded him of drowning with the ice cold liquid building up in his lungs that refused to kill him, as if a warning of what would happen when he’d leave the earth. Instead of freezing into a coma, he should he have looked for her. He will _never_ forgive himself for not going after her, and so, he does everything he can to re-enact winter. The cold had forced him to feel _alive_ just as she had been in _ice._

Sam stares at him in analytical terror and he knows the other has been counting the seconds of his suffocation out just as he was.

“I didn’t know you smoked, James,” he comments lowly, ignoring the sudden spark of sound slithering out of Natasha’s speakers. It was an American radio station and he knew exactly why she was listening to it. They’ve been cut off from the reality and chaotic turmoil in America. In fact, they were cut off from current events everywhere. It was good to know what was happening… especially when the government still didn’t know what to do with any of _them_ or the _leak._

“I use’ta smoke all the time,” he mumbles around the filter, ears training more at the silent volume of what was being said instead of Sam’s worried gaze.

 

_… Was Captain America really Lady Liberty? ..trust what Barnes says…?_

 

“I’ve never seen you smoke before man, that shit is bad for your health. _Especially_  the way you’re doing it.”

 

… “ _I think maybe the two were lovers, after all, no one cared about Stella Barnes in the first place. Maybe Lady Liberty was his side bit and Stella really was part of the Nurse Corps”…._

 

_… “Caller number 5, what do you think?” ...._

 

_…. “I think we can’t really trust Barnes anymore. If the guy really was tortured like the leak suggests, maybe he just lost his head!” ..._

 

“No offence pal, but I don’t really give a _flying fuck_.” The temperature of his blood was beginning to rise the more he listened to the stupid call-and-ask thing happening on the particular station Natasha had chosen.

 

_… “I think people need to calm down. No matter what the truth is Captain Barnes is still a decorated war veteran who was responsible for saving the liberty of our country! It doesn’t matter who Stella was, but people need to show the Captain some respect!”..._

 

… “ _I disagree with your last caller, I think Stella Barnes deserves a voice! I mean, a woman who was so horribly oppressed by the patriarchy deserves to have her voice returned!”..._

 

Sam just shook his head and looked at Natasha, pointing his finger at her menacingly.

“Turn that shit off Natasha, _look at him,”_ his arms were shaking and he brought the shaking filter up to his chapped lips again, inhaling deeply.

 

_... Do you know what this could mean for women everywhere? Why was this kept from the American public!”..._

 

He held the smoke. His vision begin to prickle as he held it as _tight as he could just like he had when he’d screamed his lungs raw after she slipped away from his vi--_

“He’s going to have another goddamn panic attack! _Turn it OFF!”_

 

…” _I want to know about “Captain” Barnes. Why was the husband chosen? How did Stella Barnes really d--”..._

 

The radio went silent and he finally exhaled, slumping against the dirty inn walls before crushing the remaining stub of the filter between his metal fingers. Natasha stayed silent as she closed the laptop with their eyes picking him apart like he was some fucking animal in a wild cage getting ready to attack.

“We need to move out,” was all Natasha said with finality. “I think I know where she’ll go next.”

 

 

…

 

 

>  
> 
> _I never liberated Azzano, but you can say I stayed there for a while. My unit and I were captured and were imprisoned at Azzano, as P.O.Ws. Everything they said that the Germans did to prisoners was proven true. However, this wasn’t no SS prison. It was HYDRA’s playground. My experiences, I won’t dwell on them, but suffice to say it was no five star hotel. I was picked for “special treatment” after I was involved with a colonel’s “accident”. Let’s just say, they weren’t appreciative of my helpful attitude and actions. It was after that, that I was introduced to Mr. Armin Zola._
> 
>  
> 
> _So you could say I was Captain America, or at least, Zola’s Bastard Copy. Envious of Erksine who had Stella the serum back the States (unbeknownst to my knowledge at the time) the bastard tried to recreate his own version of a super soldier. He failed._
> 
>  
> 
> _Torture isn’t fun. Forced drug therapy and being a pin cushion is worse. I still don’t know how I survived or what made me so different from the ones before. I want to say it was because I was raised in Brooklyn, but in reality, it was probably just the devil’s luck. That luck helped me escape in the form of Captain America. A husband is always happy to see his wife._

 

 

_..._

 

 

He thought that finding her would finally be his redemption. He’d exorcise the ghost out of her and he wouldn’t let her slip from in between his fingers again.

They were too late… _again._

The base is just on the outskirts of Murmansk in the northern, arctic tundra of Russia. Despite the freeze of winter, it was still smoking from heat. The blood of the base is warm and misting in the ice cold of her polar touch. It’s revoltingly atrocious.  He’s never seen her clean out a base so gruesomely… so _aggressively_ giving true credit to her title: _Polnocnitsa_. There are mangled bodies everywhere; killed in the most brutal ways possible. Sam immediately wretches at the stench of human flesh burning mingling with decaying blood. He chokes himself, covering his mouth and nose immediately as his hyper-sensitive senses revolt.

They make their way into the heart of the base and he doesn’t think he’s seen human bodies so ripped apart since the Bastogne. And that was from shrapnel and tree shards -- this was done with premeditation.

“This was a testing facility,” Natasha calls in a muffled voice from behind, covering her nose and mouth she like they had. “They tested us as Black Widows here. It’s where she was kept the longest when the Red Room was still up and running.”

The moment they reach the center, he believes her. As with her usual M.O, every piece of electronic equipment was smashed and destroyed; ripped and blown up by her fury. He more he moves in, the more awful he begins to feel. The message she leaves in this base, just above the mangled cryo chamber, is enough to make his eyes prickle and his knees to become weak.

 

THE DEAD -- it reads, in her painstakingly neat calligraphy -- N E V E R COME BACK 

 

He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this without going insane from grief.

 

 

…

 

 

He finally stopped chasing after her… and it's one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do in his life.

No matter how taxing, how horrible, how _insane_ their game of cat and mouse was, it was so comforting as he fell back into a rhythm that’s been drilled in him since he was a boy. He’s always been the one to follow her. Whether it was in back alleys or into the “jaws of hell” he’s always been there to protect her; trailing after her silently all across Brooklyn and Europe alike. He knew she was leaving the bases for them to find. She was leaving them messages _on purpose_ but after the last one in Murmansk, he had completely broken down.

It was then that Natasha had hugged him tightly, whispering sweet, Russian, nothings into his messy hair before he killed either everyone around him or _himself_ from succumbing to grief. It was then, on that night, that Sam had taken him aside and given him and forced him to listen despite how he’d almost strangled the man in his own shell-shock ridden tantrum.

_“James, man you know I respect the hell out of you, but you can’t keep killing yourself! You know what PTSD is brother and you have it! How do you expect to fix her, if you can’t fix yourself? James you can’t keep killing yourself. It’s not going to help you or Stella. Healing doesn’t just mean righting your wrongs man, it’s about regeneration and growth. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you.”_

At first, he didn’t even want to hear about _therapy, working it out on her own, and healing._ The only healing he ever needed in his life was her; the only heat he needed to melt and escape this insistent ice was _her._ The sudden halt makes him want to throw himself into missions all over again, freeze down into the Winter Soldier he had become… but he _knows_ in the back of his mind that he can’t. She’s always hated people forcing her will and that was exactly what he was doing. If a part of her was still his Stella, she would hate him for this. For his own destruction and waste in favor of her rebirth.

He doesn’t want to do “therapy” and listen to a shrink list all the shit that was wrong with him, but he needs to become Bucky Barnes again if she’s to become Stella Barnes.

Moving to New York, back to _Brooklyn_ no matter how different it was from the Brooklyn of his heart, was a logical choice. Keeping himself busy, on the other hand, was a whole different kind of animal. He thinks about regrowth, regeneration, _rebirth_ and he thinks that maybe… maybe Sam is right. How can he fix her if he can’t fix himself?

Writing to his sister isn’t easy, but Rebecca was the closest to him and the only one he’s actually been able to find so he writes to her. He spends his times on the street -- reclaiming lost territory and making the barren apartment tucked away in Brooklyn an actual _home_. In the Depression they had _nothing_ so he makes _something,_ going as far as to buy pots and plants and make _life_ on his balcony instead of creating nothing but death. In the evenings, when his mind begins to wander, it’s when he writes like a madman. He fills up all his notebooks and journals of every detail of their life; filling in gaps and spaces; detail after detail and it’s on another lonely Monday night that it hits him. He knows _exactly_ how he can heal.

He needs to set things right but stating the truth. Buy finally telling everyone _exactly_ how it was.

 

 

…

 

 

 

> _While the boys and I were having the time of our lives in beautiful Italy, America created their best soldier. The way she explained it to me, was that she got lucky. I guess “luck” runs in the family. Erksine saw something in her beyond her chicken bones and petite frame. He saw something purely good in her -- something heroic that the rest of us lack. That wasn’t good enough for the government. The serum she got, in theory, gave them exactly what they wanted. Except they wanted a fighting man. So what do you do with the perfect soldier? Have them sell war bonds. And nothing got America going like a pin up swinging her limber legs right in America’s face._
> 
>  
> 
> _They considered the project a complete and absolute failure just because she was a women. It didn’t matter that she could pick up cars, run like an Olympian, and rip steal with her hands. Serum even got rid of that goddamn asthma she’d had ever since she was a kid. They didn’t know what to do with her, but technically she became “government property” even though she could have snapped them like twigs if she really wanted to. But Stella was always a stubborn brat, always a punk that had to get herself into trouble. When they told her I was presumed dead, the first thing she did was make Howard Stark steal a plane and fly over to Azzano just to see if I was still kicking. Girl never could keep her hands off of me._

 

 

...

 

 

 

He wakes up from another nightmare with a startling shout. He’s become so accustomed to them that they’ve almost become like second nature. Still, he didn’t expect this one in particular to hit him so _brutally._ He isn’t sure if it’s because of the extra anxiety of dropping one of his notebooks anonymously at _The_ _New York Times_ a couple days ago, or if it’s from his body’s need to unleash pent up adrenaline. Either way, he’s morning is slow. He sluggishly drinks his coffee and decides he’s not going to go for a run. He rather stay home when his dreams become real enough to touch… needs to get his head on _straight_ before he can even think about being near other people again.

He sits down, runs his hand through his now longer hair, and meditates over the warm cup in front of him. He doesn’t know what to _think_ and he refuses to let himself be caught in melancholy again when his cellphone rings out.

It’s a text from Natasha, who was avoiding the States for now, and he’s expecting some life altering event to be sent from her latest burn phone. Except… it’s not.

 

 _“You’re trending ;)”_ It reads and he scrunches his nose at it distastefully. Wasn’t trending supposed to be a bad thing?

 

His phone chimes again and he opens the link she sent him… _he’ll_ admit, he didn’t think that it would circulate this fast, but if the future was good at anything, it was spreading information. It appeared, that _The New York Times_ accepted the anonymous notebook as credible and actually _used it._

 

_ANONYMOUS LEAK CONFIRMS LADY LIBERTY AS STELLA BARNES: NOTEBOOK SPECULATED TO BE WRITTEN BY CAPTAIN AMERICA TELLS ALL_

 

He skims through the actual article quickly, catching a few of his sentences being cited directly before dropping into the online comments section. Of course there’s an uproar. A lot are calling it a conspiracy, others refuse to believe it’s actually his notebook, but the majority… _is positive._

 

                         Susan W., Boston * 5 minutes ago:

                        _YES! Stella Barnes’ story is ACTUALLY GETTING TOLD_

 

                         PWD, Mountain View, CA * 30 minutes ago:

                        _I knew Captain America was fucking Lady Liberty ;)_

 

                                                         Karekin, USA * 34 minutes ago:

                                                       _^ Fuck you man. Lady Liberty WAS his wife. The only question that needs to be confirmed is whether or not she was also Captain America._

 

But one… one catches his eyes in particular.

 

                         Dr. Allen Birch, Long Island, NY * 55 minutes ago:

                        _Sergeant Barnes, I don’t know if you’ll read this but I hope you will. I have the utmost respect for you and what happened to you and your wife was more than unfair. It’s not just her story that needs to be told,_  
                        but YOURS as well. Would you consider writing an autobiography or releasing more facts? I’m not sure if you’ve gone into it or if you were aware that many of the  
                        surviving Howling Commandos refused to do interviews and Margaret Carter was sworn to secrecy. No one alive can explain the actual historical events better than you.  
                        Please consider it!

 

When Sam told him months ago to get a hobby… he told him he used to write. If could finally write his soul out and change _history_ to his liking, he might not need to therapy after all.

He was finally doing what he should have done all along.

 

 

…

 

 

Sam’s devotion and friendship to him was really… was _really something else._ He hadn’t experienced someone actually caring about him since the Howlies and as much as he loved them, it didn’t compare to the amount of effort the Falcon was putting into him. Hell, he’d moved into the _Avengers Tower_ of all things, claiming that it was more convenient and “cool as _fuck”_ to live with Tony Stark but he knew that the real reason was so he could keep a better eye on him.

He’s grateful… truly he _is_ and it’s nice having at least one friendly face around on the days that were worse when he didn’t want to crawl out of bed or open the blinds. Sam would come over anyways, force him to stand against the day -- just as he had yet again this _morning._

He feels better after he’s gone jogging; forced himself to use up his pent up emotion and energy to a maximum that didn’t involve annihilating everything he touched. His head feels clearer, and he immediately wants to sit down and keep scribbling into his latest notebook. The anonymous drops… they’ve been going _well_ and he hopes to God that Stella catches wind of them… maybe she’d be curious enough to check… to want to learn _more_ and --

\-- There’s a crumpled piece of paper sitting on top of his notebook.

His inhales and his senses go into battle-ready-mode. There isn’t a noise in his apartment. The windows are all shut and nothing appears to be out of place. It’s only once he’s secured the perimeter; double, _triple,_ checked and swept for bugs or unwanted bodies that he approaches the paper with shaking caution. Slowly, he unravels the paper to reveal… a receipt. From a restaurant he never went to.

When he flips it, his heart jumps right up into his throat.

Its pictures; black, pen scribbles of him. Before the war -- as a _child._

Well, not a _child_ but young. Fifteen or sixteen with what used to be his wide, infamous, flirtatious smile. They’re messy, but the familiar scratching his a way of capturing detail despite the rough mistakes and strikes from the pen ink. They’re from different angles with his expression a little different in each small portrait. In the bottom left corner of the receipt, “is this you?” is neatly written. He leaves the paper where he found it with his response written underneath in pencil: “yes.”

His paranoia spikes up again after that and he almost always refuses to leave the apartment now. He’s overly aware of every corner, space, nook and cranny for where he listens for her whispers. She’s spirited through them all and when she leaves other small drawings, there are no traces of her.

It’s driving him _crazy._

The _Polnocnitsa_ is a ghost and ghosts leave no bread crumbs. No DNA, no evidence, no hint or clue as to when and where she came. All that remains, are small, random drawings appearing like Easter eggs in his apartment. They’re left on other receipts, newspapers, or napkins; commenting on his longer hair, his lifestyle choices, or asking for clarifications of his own changes.

She’s finally… she’s finally _reaching out_ and he wants to leave something for her. Something that only she would appreciate; something that his wife would only recognize as his alone.

He buys her a large, thick sketchbook that would have cost an arm and a leg back in the forties. It takes him an entire afternoon, but he picks some of the daisies he’s got growing on his balcony and presses them -- just like he had during the war all those years ago. He leaves them littered amongst the pages and inscribes the first page with his most impressive cursive.

 

_Stella,_

_People say that flowers die, but they never really do. They share their seeds; leave imprints and traces of themselves on the earth, and when the time is right, they grow again. Just like these pressed petals, every fragment of your memory is a trace of you. You imprinted your essence into me and I want you to grow again. When the time is right, I hope you take the chance._

_All my love,_

 

_Bucky_

 

He feels himself thaw with joy when the book begins to overflow with drawings and more refined sketches. The first big project that takes up the entire page is a rolling meadow. Flowers give the illusion of jumping off the page and the gentle shading instills a flow within the long grass. At the bottom, she wrote: _I was here in 1968. But I remember it differently from a time lost before. Why?_

She was remembering.

Remembering and growing on _her own._

 

 

…

 

 

 

> _It would have looked bad if a woman broke us out of prison. It would have looked worse if the United States of America’s best soldier, was also a woman. Well, it happened, and the generals just about lost their brains when they found out that not only had Stella made her way to Azzano, but that she exploded the entire facility and marched us P.O.Ws back to the main camp. She’d proved that being a “man” didn’t make you a “soldier” but that didn’t mean shit to those in charge._
> 
>  
> 
> _This is when it starts to get confusing. She stopped being Lady Liberty (thank God almighty) and because they wanted a man, they made a man. Stella had to wear a monkey suit, used a shield, buzz cut her hair, and stuffed it in a helmet. She was christened as Captain America and we, her merry men, where to save her ass when we’d go HYDRA hunting. But Captain America couldn’t be a woman, so Stella Grace Barnes became Steven Grant Rogers. Hell, if you didn’t talk to her when she was suited up you really couldn’t tell. That was the problem. What do you do when your not-a-man has to hang out on base with the guys? They sure as hell they knew we weren’t going to pretend, so in her downtime she played the cover of being a nurse._
> 
>  
> 
> _Stella didn’t care. She was doing good and that’s all that ever mattered to her. Me on the other hand? I just about lost the rest of my goddamn mind._

 

 

...

 

 

If there’s one thing he didn’t miss about Brooklyn, it was the hot, sweltering summer nights. Even sitting on his balcony, enjoying the sounds of the streets coming alive was becoming more of an annoyance than a comfort. Hell, he even had the TV on for once because he just didn’t know how to occupy his mind any longer.

He’s… definitely calmed his emotions since the leak first happened. He’s heard almost everything and anything people can throw at him and he doesn’t give a _fuck_ at what the small percentage of assholes thought. Most people had figured out that the anonymous notebooks were his doing but he still refused to go officially public with them. He wanted to stir the truth out slowly, make sure it was well in place and enough people actually thought about it before confirming anything officially. At this point, he’s only lazily listening to the conversation of the latest CNN panel as he smoked on the balcony, drinking his lukewarm beer.

 

_… “Can we truly trust Captain America -- or as he’s calling himself -- ‘Sergeant’ Barnes?”..._

 

_… “What I want to know is why haven’t the remaining Howling Commandos or Margaret Carter come out to either confirm or deny what these ‘anonymous notebooks’ are claiming?..._

 

_… “Well the situation isn’t that simple, Diane. For one, Margaret Carter, unfortunately, suffers from Alzheimer's and is at an undisclosed nursing home”...._

 

_… “Coming up next! What happened to Stella Barnes? Shocking documents said to be the writings of husband “Captain Barnes” revealed after this quick commercial break!”..._

 

Suddenly, there’s a creek in the floor and he immediately whips around, only to see the silhouette… of Stella standing in his kitchen. She drops the notebook as if she’s been burned. The hoodie of her sweater is up and she bolts out the window in one swift movement. This time though… _this time he’s right on her tail._

She expertly weaves her way through the fire escapes but he’s just as fast. He’s on the rooftop with her in a moment and as he jumps from one building to another, he finally gets a good look at her. She’s in civvies -- tight jeans and heeled sneakers, like the ones Natasha wears. Her hoodie is twice her size and when the hood falls off as she vaults from one roof to the next, it reveals a _buzz cut_ as opposed to her long, flowing hair.

“Stella!” he calls after her, but she only increases her speed as she comes to the edge of yet another roof. _“Stella!!”_

When he jumps after her and lands in an alley… she’s _gone._

Without a _single trace._

He explodes. He can’t keep his anger _controlled_ anymore and he begins to punch the wall beside him. Blow after blow doesn't slow him down as he pounds at the concrete mercilessly. Chunks of brick begin to fly every time his metal arm makes contact with the building and eventually, the blood from his flesh hand begins to mix with the dust. It’s only once the plates begin to his and the metal around his shoulder begins to _burn_ that he stops.

With heavy steps he goes home, wiping his eyes roughly before opening the book that she had dropped onto his table.

The sketches are darker... Thicker lines that are _twisted_ in what he can only call confusion. Unlike before, they are self-portraits. A few are of when she was small. Petite and sickly, confined to a bed before swinging her legs as Lady Liberty. Her facial expressions are different -- cocky and seductive as if she had drawn another _person_ before morphing into Cap with the short hair and the nurse with the serious face. Later they’re of her as the _Polnocnitsa --_ deadly and sharp with hair flowing of the page into crazed, red scribbles.

WHAT IS THE TRUTH!?!? -- Is written right across the next page that reveal more drawings of her in these different forms. Some of them are circled with a red pen… before the red circles begin to engulf the page, turning into a raging mess. The next page has nothing but text:

 

W H I C H O N E I S M E

 

 

…

 

 

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night and when he gets another text from Natasha, he doesn’t know what to _do_ anymore.

 

_“Another HYDRA base blown up -- in Texas. She’s in the States again.”_

 

As if he didn’t already know that.  He could have told Natasha that she was spending most of her time remembering, but the Black Widow tell him immediately to leave her alone without making any sudden movements. Too late for that -- and he doesn’t know what’s worse: that she was clearly trying to remember, without wanting his interference? Or that he had clearly fucked things up for her. She needs to do this on her own… he _realizes this_ and yet he feels so pathetic. She really was like a spirit, so close to him yet always a brush away in a realm he couldn’t touch.

He tries to continue keeping a pace, since Sam refuses to let him curl up in a ball wanting nothing more but to drown again and stay dead. It’s almost a month later that he notices her creeping again. Whatever had gone through her head the night she had furiously scratched into the pages must have processed… but hadn’t gotten better. The little scraps of paper, is if ripped from larger body of work, began to scatter in every corner of the apartment. It’s driving him mad and one night he reaches his limit. He doesn’t _care_ at Natasha’s voice scolding him in the back of his mind -- he needs to tell her _himself_ how it was without the influence of the American pandemonium over the situation. He begins to scout the area; treating his own home as a potential threat as he scurries around the perimeter with silent ease.

 

After a week… he catches her.

 

He’s crouched on a higher rooftop; in a sniping position from where he can see almost the entire kitchen from the open window. She’s good at coming in silently, but the kitchen was where she left the most of her drawings. If he wanted to see her this would be his best shot. He steadies his breathing, sharp eyes calculating every possible angle she’d use to get in without him knowing. However, it’s once he concentrates on _listening_ beyond the sound of his heart beating… the noise of cars, people laughing, and animals crawling… that something sparks his attention.

It’s a creek from the fire escape -- an inevitable mistake since it was _so damn old_ \-- and he watches a figure with the same dark, green hoodie slink onto the roof. He holds his breath and slowly straightens from his crouched position to stand up tall. Her attention immediately snaps to him -- _and she runs._

He sprints after her again, pushing his muscles been their enhanced limit just to keep her within his sights. He doesn’t want her to take a sudden turn and disappear for months again. He’ll let her go… but she needs to hear it from him _before --_

_“Stella!”_

She immediately turns around and pulls a pistol on him, sliding a bit on her toes before she comes to a complete halt. He slams the fingers of his metal arm into the roof and forces himself to stop at a distance from her, slowly putting both his hands up whilst trying to calm his pounding organs.

_“Stella --”_

_“What is the TRUTH!?”_ her cold precision is quivering with overflowing emotion. The hood having fallen off again revealing her buzz cut hair again; tufts of blonde already peeking out from the roots. She... she has _tears_ in her eyes with black mascara running wild in a smudge that reminds him from when he had first encountered her on the rooftop in Washington.

He takes a gentle step forward and she takes the safety off, holding the gun more firmly as she aimed at it his head.

“Stella... the _truth_ is that you’re all of them.”

“But the Smithsonian said --”

“The Smithsonian is nothing but _lies and war time propaganda --”_

“But you _said I was all of them!”_

“You were… Stels, _you were_ but the nursing was just a cover for --”

“For what,” she snorts, her grip relaxing for a moment and he realizes just how dangerous this was becoming. “For Captain America? Or Lady _fucking_ Liberty!”

“No… Stella look, the situation is complicated… I --- I’ve been _trying_ to make it right by --”

“You mean the “anonymous leaks” that everyone’s going crazy about?! _That’s been you?_ I should have fucking figured… everyone’s been just been fucking _lying_ and I can’t --”

_“Sweetheart, no listen to me--”_

“ _No you listen!_ You’re just like HYDRA!” she suddenly roars, her grip re-tightened by her hand still quivering. She was lethally unstable.  _  
_

“Stevie… I know it’s all a shit-storm right now, but _you’ve gotta believe me--”_

_“GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”_

“Stella _please -- let me help you.”_

_“FUCK YOU!”_

He feels his heart breaking at the sight of her and he stares at her finger testing the pressure of the trigger.

“If this helps you,” he speaks firmly, staring at the muzzle intently. “Than do it.”

_“Shaddup!!”_

“Because,” he grits staring at her feral eyes. The same eyes that she used to have… _that she still had, “_ All I want to do is help you. If shooting me is gonna help ya’ _then do it--!_ ”

The gun goes off and he closes his eyes waiting for the impact to liberate him. Instead his ears ring and everything is whole. He opens them slowly… there’s a smoking bullet in the ground at his feet.

Stella is gone.

 

 

…

 

 

 

> _I don’t want to talk about the details of how Stella died._
> 
>  
> 
> _But know that in death, it only got worse. The male equation was solved. The Captain America question was a little harder. Who was going to fit the bill to keep those lovely war bonds coming in? Me. Out of everyone they could have picked for the job they picked me -- because I had the bastard serum. I played their little game. I was tired of war, grieving the death of my wife, and shell-shocked out of this century but when I knew it was the wrong thing to do. I wasn’t Captain America and that honor belonged to Stella alone. So I threw it away and became my own man._
> 
>  
> 
> _I should've died at Bastogne. I should've frozen or been shelled. Instead I got a fancy nickname, the Winter Soldier, less for my valor and more for the death wish I had. She was gone. There was nothing else. I wanted it to end. But it didn't. So I put the Valkyrie down. I wanted to save my home, my friends, my family. But I also wanted to save myself._

 

 

...

 

 

“I got a’letter back from my kid sister,” he speaks in a huff, slowing down his tempo so Sam can catch up.

“Oh yeah?” the other pants in question, coming up right beside him with his eyes fixated on the path before them. “That’s good man! What did she say?”

“Says she an’ my other siblings wanna see me. Says the miss me and love me and they wanna introduce me to their families.”

“James… that’s _really_ great. Seriously man. I can’t imagine how hard it is to rekindle with family after so many years. Well for _them_ ‘cause I know for you it’s only been a couple of years.”

“Yeah,” he breathes slowly, spacing out at the thought of how big and boisterous his family was… He hasn’t tried to meet up with everyone else that used to be his family. The Howlies, Tony, Joey, and _Rosie._ He’s been so fixated on Stella since without her, he didn’t even feel like her deserved to see his family again --

“ _For fucks, sake,_ James you need to _stop that!_ ”

He comes to a complete halt, slowly turning to Sam who had stopped running and had crossed his arms across his chest in frustration.

“S’cuse me?”

“You _can’t_ keep putting yourself _down_ James -- I can see it every time you get really quiet and space out! Dude, I wasn’t kidding about what I said earlier. You _seriously_ need therapy and having Stella back in your life isn’t going to fix _anything.”_

Words escape him… he’s so flustered, shocked, and angrily defensive that he wants to tell Sam to fuck off and mind his own damn business, but before he can even open his mouth the other continues.

“The “Winter Soldier”? It’s almost like a _mode_ and I can when you are and aren’t _Bucky_ anymore. You know what man? I think she can too.”

 

 

…

 

 

When he comes home, brooding and silent, he doesn’t expect to see a sketch waiting for him on the kitchen table. It’s… it’s not a crazed doodle but an actual _drawing_ that was penciled carefully. It’s…. Their wedding photo. The same one that he’d kept with him in his pocket in Europe that had been mangled and disintegrated in the _Valkyrie._ He touches the page gently with his flesh arm, feeling the ridges and bumps from where she pressed in harder to get the fine detail out caressing his fingers. There were no words… just their _smiles_ shining off the page.

His curtains flutter -- when he turns around, she’s there.

Her buzz cut hair has grown into somewhat of a pixie cut. It looks exactly like it had during her _Captain America_ days. She’s got the same wedged running shoes on along with black leggings and and jacket covering her muscled shoulders. She doesn’t look like she’s on the run again, but rather, like a regular person you’d meet down the street.

He doesn’t dare breathe or blink, worried that she’ll evaporate from his vision and leave him feeling cold again. To his surprise, she begins to walk up to him carefully and in the shoes she’s _taller than him._ He can’t keep his eyes off of her and when she lifts her shaking hand in the air, he’s worried she’s going to try and fight him. Instead… the raised hand slowly lands on his cheek. He flinches when their nose to nose; his heart bursting through his ears and his senses exploding from the proximity of her presence. Immediately, he melts into the touch.

“Bucky,” she tries on her tongue hesitantly before speaking again, more confidently, “ _Bucky.”_

He swallows harshly, gaze drowning in the depths of those corn-flower, blue eyes expecting her to explode, to disappear, to _something_ because he can’t believe that she’s in front of him again. So docile and so willing to stretch into reality and _touch._

“You said I was your family,” she speaks and he nods, not trusting himself to speak. Her thumb works down and she strokes his bottom lip thoughtfully. He can’t _breathe._

“Were we married?”

“Yes...” he whispers, her artist fingers dancing from his face to cup him behind his neck, playing with the longer strands.

“...Were we… happy?”

_“Yes.”_

Her hand smoothed from behind to the front; grazing his Adam’s apple before long fingers wrap around his throat. He freezes as the fingers tighten; squeezing further and further into his skin, hard enough to _bruise._ They’re pressing in the right spots. If she wants to kill him, he’ll let her do it. She _could_ do it easily and the when his throat begins to tremble, the fingers loosen. She let’s go and takes a couple steps back, before turning around and making her way towards the window.

 _“Stay,”_ he can’t help but croak out hoarsely, frozen and entranced in place.

Her back is still turned to him as she rumbles in the familiar bass, “I’m dangerous.”

“As if I’m _not--”_

 _“No._ I… You’re better off without me, Bucky.”

_“I can’t function without you.”_

She shakes her head and jumps out the window. This time… he doesn’t follow her.

 

 

…

 

 

 

> _I will never forgive myself for not coming back for her, for believing that she was dead when she had believed that I was alive. I will never forgive myself for allowing them to twist history and slander Stella’s name and squash everything she ever fought for like some slimy cockroach. I will never forgive myself for being frozen in a coma while she was ripped apart and sewed back together again some insidious creature._
> 
>  
> 
> _Captain America died in the ice._
> 
>  
> 
> _When I woke up from my little nap, I couldn’t continue to live the lie I was forced to play during the war. I stayed with the nickname, “the Winter Soldier” and I let it become me. If history changed my lives than I would change the present. Captain America, that good, wholesome, pure American soldier died when my wife fell off a train in Switzerland. That hero will continue to stay dead -- ghosts don’t ever come back to life._

 

 

...

 

 

Summer has turned into fall; the leaves have changed their color in anticipation of the winter that will come and freeze them all. He can feel the cold of the season in his old bones and he wonders if he’s going to freeze and hibernate for the winter or if he’ll ever be warm enough to live like a human -- and not a robotic soldier. He’s… he really has been making an effort. He thinks he scared Stella off with his proclamation when she had come to him all those weeks ago. She hadn’t been angry… nor as confused anymore… and _hopes_ it’s because her own memories are a confirmation of the truth he’s been trying to create after almost a century of lies.

It’s on a lazy Sunday afternoon with a warm cup of coffee and a heavy pencil in his hand that the doorbell rings. He’s been expecting his youngest brother, Kenneth, to come over. They had an interesting relationship… despite never knowing each other too well. He had shipped out when the other was an infant and he’d only grown up on pictures and stories of him than actual recollection. He was like him and despite the old and withered skin of his “baby” brother, he had a flirty “Bucky” smile and a cocky attitude that he’d never known where he got from.

It was almost a reminder of what could have been if he’d never gone in the ice.

When he opens the door, the blood runs from his face and he feels winter seep back into his bones.

 

It’s Stella.

 

She’s got a long, red pea coat on and her hair has grown to her shoulders. It’s softly curled, probably in rags from the looks of it, and reaches her chin. It’s how she looked in the forties with a small, shy smile as she avoided his gaze.

“No window?” he can’t help but ask, not knowing what to do with his hands as he continues to clutch the doorknob. Her lips curl upward and she finally looks at him with deep, wholesome eyes. So full and sparkling with _life_ again. “That’d be rude. So, you gonna let a girl in or not?”

Wordless he opens the door wider, taking a step back as she walks inside. The moment the door is shut tight and the lock slides into place, she begins to speak again.

“I still don’t have all my memories back you know.”

She’s looking at him now, the smile wiped off her face in a sad expression. She’d never been good at staying neutral, usually wearing her emotions on the cuff of her sleeve.

“Some come in violent flashes, shattered pieces, and I was confused… for a long time about what really _was the truth._ But you know,” she continues, taking a step closer to his petrified form. “The one constant was always you.”

  _“I love you,”_ he finally whispers wetly, watching her face crumble as his own emotions explode in a hurricane. “ _I love you_ … I’m -- Stella I’m so _sorry.”_

“ _Bucky, no --”_

“You shouldn’t have saved me… and I should have _looked for you --”_

“Buck, I remember _you._ It was better that it was _me --”_

_“No--”_

_“I forgive you, Bucky.”_

He looks up from his blurring hands only to realize they’re almost nose to nose. She doesn’t look sad anymore. Angry, or confused, or frozen in the icy banks at the bottom of a river. _Warm, human_ hands grip his shoulders tight and she shakes him a little, staring right into his eyes with a ferocity he could never look away from.

“I forgive you, Bucky.”

The words he didn’t deserve set him free.

He collapses into her arms and she’s there to catch him, squeezing him as tightly as she inhumanly can. He returns the embrace and feels himself beginning to thaw from Winter into _Bucky_ again. He burries his nose into the spot between her shoulder and neck and begins to sob. Loud, ugly crying as he falls apart in her arms. He pulls her in closer as her scent rushes through his nose and revives all of his dead nerves. She shushes him gently and rubs her fingers up and down his spin like he would when she was at her sickest, fingers eventually combing his overgrown hair back. Her arms are wrapped around him protectively and he relishes the feel of her body slotting against his. He was finally _complete_ again. He never thought he'd _have_ this again. Have _her._

“This is the beyond, Bucky,” she whispers into his ear wetly, hands cradling him and she rocks them gently as he buries himself further into her warm, _alive,_ body.

“There doesn’t have to be a last time. We still haven’t reached the end of the line.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed :)
> 
> HMU on tumblr! I just reblog like a mad man on my main blog, but I'm always posting song playlists, photography, poetry, fan fiction chapters, and answer prompt requests (anything from "hey can you write this? too a couple sentences of a "fic drabble" that I complete) on my writing blog. Don't by shy to fire off requests and prompt ideas at me!  
> See you there ;)
> 
> main blog: http://miod-jak-mela.tumblr.com/  
> writing blog: http://redmela.tumblr.com/


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